Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (23 page)

Maxwell Buchanan.

The duke had buried his dagger deep. Now he’d twisted it by spreading these rumors about Beatrice.

Fenwicke wasn’t about to roll over and die, however. Not yet. Not for a very, very long time. Wakefield would be dead long before he was.

With this blow, the duke thought he’d won for good.
Fenwicke’s reputation probably would never recover from this scandal. Max was probably in his new ducal lodgings congratulating himself on the fool he’d made of Fenwicke, three times over. He’d become a duke. He’d seduced the slut Olivia Donovan. Now, he’d destroyed Fenwicke’s reputation among his peers.

But he hadn’t won. Not by a long shot. Because Fenwicke had plans of his own. Plans of vengeance that couldn’t fail. Wouldn’t fail. Because Leonard Reece, the Marquis of Fenwicke, was no fool. He was a careful planner, and this time, he’d make certain he did things right.

He couldn’t see his timepiece, but it was probably about three o’clock in the morning by now. The perfect time to find just the right kind of man to perform the task he had in mind.

He rose and went to awaken his coachman.

O
livia glanced across the small drawing room at the dowager Lady Stratford, who had looked up from her tea and was gazing with interest at the letter in Olivia’s hand. The dowager’s mother, a crotchety old woman, was still upstairs taking her afternoon nap.

“Would you like to go to the opera tomorrow night, my lady?” Olivia asked.

“The opera? Goodness me. I haven’t been to the opera in years.”

“The Duke of Wakefield has invited us.”

At that, the countess broke into a wide smile. “Did he? What a lovely gentleman he is. How good of him not to have forgotten all about us lowly beings despite his lofty new title.”

Olivia smiled down at the letter.

“However,” the dowager continued, “my mother will have a tantrum if I leave her so soon. She wishes to monopolize my nights.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t go, then,” Olivia said.

“Nonsense! Of course we shall go. It is an honor to be invited to a duke’s box, my dear. I’m sure many people are clamoring for an invitation like that.” Her smile turned sly. “Olivia, I do believe His Grace might have a tendre for you. And it seems to me that this is a sign of his intentions.”

Olivia had been steadfastly avoiding thoughts about Max’s intentions, because Max’s words were so different from his actions. Trying to predict the man’s motives would only drive her to madness. Yet maybe the dowager had insight she did not. She cocked her head at the countess. “How do you mean, my lady?”

The countess gave her an assessing look, then a sharp nod. “You’ve married sisters, so I feel I can be frank with you.”

“By all means, please do.”

“Well, my dear, the duke has been writing you nonstop since he left Sussex, and now he’s inviting you to the theater in a very public gesture. I do believe he’s sending the clear message that he wants you.”

“As… his mistress?” Olivia asked, suddenly full of dread. Had she allowed her hopes to build too high? Would Max really flaunt her as his mistress? He’d wanted to be discreet about their relationship in Sussex—as much as he’d teased her about it, he’d ultimately seemed to have valued discretion as much as she had. And while he hadn’t treated her like a mistress, he’d also made it clear that he never intended to ask for anything more from any woman.

The countess laughed. “Oh no, of course not. No, I mean that perhaps he is considering marriage.”

Olivia released the breath she’d been holding. “I see.”

Of course, the dowager hadn’t heard about his intention never to marry. She couldn’t know of Max’s fear of becoming like his father.

If Olivia dared hope that he had changed his mind about marriage… Well, what if she was wrong? What if he didn’t want that from her? There was more at stake now than that day at the goose spring. If she believed he wanted her on a permanent basis, she’d drop those flimsy remaining walls protecting her heart, and she’d fall quickly. She’d build up so much hope, thinking of Max waking beside her every day, thinking of being his wife and of sharing a life with him, that she’d be setting herself up for a very long, very brutal fall.

Socially, she was still far beneath him. Goodness, it was possible that she couldn’t even give him the heirs he would certainly need.

Oh, she wished the countess hadn’t told her that. Because the older woman’s words further crumbled Olivia’s walls of defense.

Olivia wanted it—wanted him—badly. She wanted him, and she wanted it to be forever.

She couldn’t wait to see him. She’d count the hours until he came to escort her to the theater.

That night, Max went to his club. Last night he’d eaten dinner alone, but tonight he felt like company and pleasant conversation.

His time at White’s was made all the more pleasurable by his knowledge that Olivia had arrived in Town today. He was itching to see her, but he hadn’t wanted to call on her and the dowager when they were exhausted from travel. He hardly knew how he’d contain himself until tomorrow evening when he went to fetch them to the theater.

So instead he tried to focus on the men surrounding him, on politics and sport, on his food and drink, when he saw Captain Langley, who approached him with a furrowed brow.

“Good evening, Langley.”

“Wakefield.” Langley’s dark eyes scanned the room, and then he gestured to a dimly lit corner. “Can you spare a few moments? There’s something I must speak with you about.”

“Of course.” But Max’s gut clenched. God, had something happened to Olivia? Another fever? He sure as hell hoped not. She’d said there were lengthy intervals between her fevers—surely it was too soon.

He sat in one of the seats. Langley pulled a chair closer before lowering himself in it, and he leaned forward. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight. If you didn’t come, I intended to call on you later.”

“Tell me what it is.” Max swallowed past the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. “Has Olivia…?”

Langley raised his hand. “Olivia is well, as far as I know. In fact, Stratford has sent me a letter saying she’s come to London with the dowager. He asked me to keep an eye on them.”

Max released a breath of relief.

“But what I have to say concerns the Donovans as well as your friend, Fenwicke.”

Not Fenwicke again. “He’s not my friend,” Max said through clenched teeth.

“That’s good to hear, because rumors have been flying, and I just received verification of their veracity from Stratford.”

“Rumors about what?”

“Fenwicke has been beating his wife.”

Max’s eyelids sank shut. But he couldn’t even bring himself to be surprised. He’d seen Beatrice enough when he was at Stratford House to know that something must have happened to change her from the bright, happy debutante she’d once been. He just hadn’t made the connection. Now, it all made sense. “Good God. Is she…?”

“After your last meeting here at the club, he returned to Sussex and beat her quite soundly.”

Max clenched his fists. He had been responsible for Fenwicke’s anger, so the responsibility for the beating lay squarely on him.

“The reports originated from a doctor who saw her in Sussex. He was appalled by the brutality of the beating and immediately set about destroying Fenwicke’s reputation.”

“Without a thought for the young woman’s safety?”

“She has run off.” Langley leaned closer to him and lowered his voice. “This part isn’t public knowledge. The
doctor didn’t reveal any link between Lady Fenwicke and the Donovan sisters—apparently he had given his word that he wouldn’t—but you and I both know that Miss Jessica and Lady Fenwicke are bosom friends. Stratford informed me that it was Jessica who convinced the lady to run away.”

Max just stared at Langley. Brave Jessica. He wasn’t surprised by this either—he could easily envision the youngest Donovan sister as a stubborn protector of anyone she held dear.

“They’re both gone,” Langley said in a low voice. “Stratford didn’t reveal where they have gone, which is probably for the best. I know you’ve been locked up working, Wakefield, but everyone has heard the story by now. Fenwicke is back in Town, and he came here to White’s last night.”

“What happened?” Max asked.

“He was cut.”

“Good,” Max bit out.

“If what Stratford says is true—and he’s not the kind of man to exaggerate such a serious charge—the young lady is in risk of losing her life to Fenwicke’s violence. And, yes, he deserves to be cut.”

“And more,” Max said.

“And more,” Langley agreed. “But I thought you should know, since you’re—well, not his friend, but it appears you and Fenwicke have had a frequent association.”

“Not by my choice.” Max leaned back in the chair. The information he’d just received drained away the excitement that had been bubbling up within him all night. He still wanted to see Olivia—perhaps even more than he had a few minutes ago—but he wanted to see her in
private. He wanted to hold her, to make gentle love to her. To worship her perfect body and drink in her sweetness.

To obliterate from his mind the fact that Fenwicke had taken out his anger at Max on his innocent wife.

Max swiped a hand over his brow, wiping away beads of sweat that had formed there. He rose on unsteady feet.

“I think I’ll go home.”

Langley rose, too, and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I had to be the bearer of that news.”

“I’m glad I heard the accurate version from a friend,” Max said. “Far better than an exaggerated version from an acquaintance, or the gossip that I’m bound to hear soon enough.”

Pressing his lips together, Langley nodded.

Max made his good-byes and went downstairs, took his heavy greatcoat—there was ice in the air tonight—and hat from the porter, and left White’s. He turned right and took St. James’s Street and hooked across Piccadilly to Dover Street, dark at this time of night but for the streetlamps burning, casting a cold light over the street—just enough that Max could see where he placed his feet. He liked how close the house was to White’s—he imagined within a few months, he’d know every step of this path.

As a silence descended over the street that would be bustling in a few hours, he paused to study the heavens. There was no moon tonight, nor any stars. The soft glow of the streetlamps lent a gloomy, otherworldly glow to the mist swirling about the edges of the buildings across the street.

He continued down the road as the clomping and rattling of a carriage sounded behind him. As it neared,
the driver slowed the horses until they walked at Max’s speed, a few steps behind.

He scowled over his shoulder. The silhouette of dark-colored horses and the sleek, black carriage emerged from the fog. From its elegant lines and the flashes of polish on its finish, he determined it was a regal affair and not someone out to rob him.

Was it someone he knew?

A blast of cold wind slapped him in the face as he turned back toward Hay Hill and his destination. He picked up his pace, striding through the mist created by his breath. Whoever they were, whatever they wanted, he was not in the mood. He wanted to be with Olivia. Since that wasn’t an option right now, he wanted to be home. Alone. He didn’t want to see anyone else.

Max turned onto Hay Hill, and the carriage drew to a halt behind him. A harsh, gritty voice came from close behind him. “Your Grace?”

Had the man come out of the carriage? Max reeled to a halt, pinching his lips together in annoyance. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he turned.

Pain exploded in his face. He reeled backward, pinpricks of light bursting in his vision.

“Bloody hell!” He clutched his nose. His fingers slid over hot, slick blood. Blinking rapidly, he made out the shadows of at least four men in dark coats.

So they were out to rob him, after all.

Max made a quick assessment of the enemy. The one in the front was the tallest by far—probably half a foot taller than Max, who had always been considered rather enormous at just over six feet tall—and his fists were clenched, ready to fight. Max spread his legs, adopting a
battle stance. If he wanted any chance of getting out of this, he’d have to fight through this man first.

His waistcoat and tailcoat were too tight to give him a decent range of motion, but he doubted the giant would allow him to prepare properly. His valet would be highly inconvenienced by this, but there was no way around it.

Max gave a hoarse yell and attacked, balling his hand just before his punch met its target. His greatcoat remained intact, but buttons popped on his waistcoat, and his tailcoat screeched in protest, ripping along the side seam.

Max’s fist met solid flesh, and the large man let out a strangled “Oomph!” and staggered backward.

It was then that the other men closed on him.

Max fought. He was a good fighter—he’d done his share of sparring in the boxing ring. But these men were coarse—he could tell from their smell, from their muttered grunts and curses, from their shabby clothes—and they didn’t follow the rules of gentlemanly conduct in a fight. They hit him below the waist, anywhere their fists could make contact with his flesh.

Two of them managed to yank his hands behind him, and someone twined rough rope around his wrists. He strained hard, nearly twisting free, but one of the men wrapped his arms around Max, holding him in a headlock as the others finished their job.

Well, if they wouldn’t fight like gentlemen, neither would he. He swung his knee upward, striking the man who held his head in the ballocks. With a yowl, the man let him go, his hands flying to his crotch as he sank to his knees.

Max lunged away, but his movements slowed without
the use of his arms. He’d taken only a few steps before one man hooked his hand between Max’s wrists, using the rope to yank him backward. He stumbled, trying to keep his footing on the slick, icy ground, but hands seemed to be everywhere, thrusting him down. He kicked, skidded, and finally lost his balance.