The Third Duke's the Charm (18 page)

Never. It was an oath. A solemn promise.

And he meant it.

C
hapter Eighteen

Charles gazed at his lovely wife, his breath caught in his throat. Though this was not exactly the festive occasion for which he’d paid extra to have the gown delivered as soon as possible, he still had a moment of pure male appreciation for the effect. The blue material flattered her fair hair and pale skin, the décolletage modest but exposing a hint of the upper curves of her breasts, the flare of the skirt becoming, and the froth of Belgian lace at the sleeves emphasized the feminine grace of her arms.

His voice was slightly hoarse. “You are dazzling, my love.”

“Thank you. I must say you are very handsome this evening also, but then I think you always are.”

The compliment was said shyly, but that was Louisa. He took her hand and gallantly lifted it to his lips before going over to the sideboard and picking up a decanter.

“I wish I was wearing this to the wedding as planned.” Louisa accepted a glass of sherry and sat in an elegant Queen Anne chair, her expression somber. “This is not much of a celebration.”

“No,” he agreed grimly, taking a sip of his wine. “So far we have heard nothing about or from Lucien, but my father insists we dine
en famille
this evening, so we shall. At least he and I seem to be speaking again, though I admit the circumstances that have brought it about are not ideal.”

What an understatement. And though they had traveled back to London together, their conversational exchanges had been brief and terse and his father had slept a good deal of the way—when he wasn’t racked by fits of that awful cough.

Not only was he personally absorbed by worry over his brother, but his father’s health was obviously failing, and the current situation was no doubt making it all much worse. Then there was Vivian, who was calm and serene on the outside, but he knew well was hardly quite as collected as she pretended. Her unhappiness reflected his own and though he wanted to comfort her, had no idea what to offer.

Hell
.

“Good evening.”

He turned, seeing his father enter the formal drawing room, his manner reserved as always, his pristine cravat a reflection of his pallor.

The duke inclined his head toward Louisa. “Please, there is no need to rise,” he added as she went to hastily set aside her glass. “I am weary of formality. Sit, child. Pour me a glass of claret, would you, Charles.”

He looked weary in general, Charles thought, as he silently went to pour a glass of wine into a crystal goblet. Crossing the room, he set it on a small table next to his father. “Sir.”

“Thank you. Any word?”

Had there been, he would have told his father before anyone, so they both knew the question was superfluous. “None.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” When his father lifted his glass his hand was dismayingly unsteady.

“An unsatisfying one for both of us.”

“True enough,” the Duke of Sanford admitted after taking a sip.

Then he started to cough and Charles was chillingly not quite sure that the red substance he wiped away from his lips was the claret. He seemed to always have a handkerchief in his hand as of late. “Lucien’s secretary is convinced that his missed appointment with his solicitor is an indication of the time he disappeared. It seems this was an important estate matter and he would never have neglected it.”

“Today was also somewhat of an important matter,” his father responded testily. “I assume he wouldn’t have neglected his wedding, since it was entirely his idea, but then again, all men don’t shoulder their responsibility in the same manner.”

The implied criticism was fine—even deserved—but Louisa was in the room. Perhaps their brief truce was crumbling already. “Circumstances can intervene,” Charles said evenly.

“The responsibility of a public life supersedes personal impulse.”

“I am quite sure Lucien is aware of that.”

“My point is to make sure
you
are aware of it.”

Louisa was staring at a painting done by Gainsborough that hung on the wall over a small table, her averted profile expressionless. Her beautiful face was pale as marble. As the last thing he wanted was an argument in front of her, he merely responded, “I am.”

“If Lucien doesn’t return you will inherit.”

It was an affirmation that his father’s illness was progressing that he stated it out loud, but Charles had already discerned he was getting worse. “Lucien will return.”

“If he doesn’t—”

“He will.”

“You were never supposed to be my heir.”

He knew that to be true, but then again, he hadn’t wanted the title either. Oddly enough, that flat declaration still stung. “I don’t want to inherit, so we are in accord.”

“I haven’t trained you in any way.”

Always the damned dukedom. Lucien was missing and
that
was what this was about? Not that Charles didn’t realize the situation was dire, but . . .

“I can manage if I must,” he said gently, watching as another cough racked his father’s body and the handkerchief came out again. “Trust me. I’ve handled my own financial affairs very well so far. I’m young, I know, but I’d like to think not unintelligent.”

“Humph.” His father didn’t agree or disagree. “I wasn’t referring to—”

He interrupted, something he rarely did, especially not his austere father. “Perhaps we can discuss this tomorrow in your study.”

“I could leave,” Louisa said, her voice very quiet. “This is a family matter.”

“No.” To his credit his father shook his head. “You are now part of this family. Charles is correct. We will continue this at another time.”

When all three rose to go into the vast dining room, it was incongruously quiet, Charles noted, their mood subdued even though the brilliantly lit chandeliers exhibited the gorgeous Renaissance paintings and intricately carved furniture. His father waived his soup and declined the fish course, nibbling only at the grouse when it was brought in, fragrant in a cream sauce, and in the same spirit proceeded to only eat half his dinner, if that.

None of them, actually, had much of an appetite.

It was not exactly a satisfying experience. Louisa excused herself after dessert, practically fleeing the room to allow them to enjoy their port in a bow to that masculine tradition. Charles accepted his glass with a nod to the footman, and braced himself.

“Already the estates need your attention because of your brother’s absence.” His father fingered his glass, his gaze at least as keen as ever. “I will help you, but my research takes up almost all of my time.”

It translated to the admission that what he wished to do was spend time with his beloved plants. It was useless to argue, of course. If his days were truly waning, he should use them as he wished.

“Very well. I will make sure I am available.”

“You are a man now.”

“I have been for quite some time,” Charles agreed, keeping his tone even.

“I suppose so.” The hint of doubt in his father’s voice was hardly flattering. “Lucien has always known he was going to be duke . . . it isn’t an easy responsibility.”

“Don’t speak as if he isn’t going to shoulder it.”

“My son, we need to speak of it that way, just in case..”

The dining room, with its grand frescoes and artistic arches seemed suddenly too oppressive. If they needed to speak of it, so they should. Charles finished the sentence. “In case your illness is as serious as I am coming to see it might be.”

“Yes.”

“Were you ever going to tell us?”

“Why should I?” His father lifted his port glass to his mouth, lowered it without drinking, and looked at him. “It is my affair.”

The attitude reflected what Lucien had said about the situation, but Charles was not able to summon similar detachment. “No it isn’t. For those of us that love you, it isn’t fair to keep the truth to yourself.”

“You’ve always been too emotional, Charles.”

The criticism didn’t even bother him. “I hope so,” he said in soft response. “I hope that I am capable of true and fast devotion to both my family and my duty.”

“Your brother understands.”

“My brother might be more emotional than I am,” he rejoined with emphatic inflection. “Lucien isn’t nearly as impassive as he seems. You need to talk to me, and you need to talk to him.”

“Perhaps and perhaps not. I think I understand my own son.”

“Just as you understand
me
?”

There was a pause, and then his father surprisingly acquiesced with an inclination of his head. “Point taken.”

Under other circumstances Charles might have asked about what his father wished to do next, but instead he said, “I’m going to meet with Bow Street tomorrow and if there is no new information, I might seek other avenues.”

***

Louisa turned at the sound of the door opening. She’d been standing by the window, the garden quiet below, the scent of chimney smoke a reminder there were no open fields and wooded glens, but instead house after house, and no matter how grand the one she was in might be, it was just another among many.

To her surprise, Charles was still fully dressed. Neither did he join her, but instead stood there in the doorway that connected their suite. “I see you are still awake. I didn’t want to retire without saying good night.”

At that moment, for the first time since she met him, she felt as if he needed her perhaps more than she needed him. She’d brought him nothing—no dowry, no family ties to royalty or riches, no political advantages, but quite the opposite. They had both sacrificed, yes. She was still smarting from her family’s censure of her marriage, but he had definitely given up a great deal to make her his wife.

“Neither did I.” She smiled, but it was tremulous. “I think you failed to tell me your father is gravely ill.”

As usual, he was not one to deceive or prevaricate. “Lucien only told me recently or I would not have known until this evening either. I’d noticed the cough, but thought nothing of it really. I am sure my brother’s absence has had a profound effect on his already failing health. It wasn’t obvious before.”

In the light of the single lamp his features were drawn, etched in shadows. Softly, she said, “Charles, my love. I’m so sorry.”

He came to her then, in three long strides as he crossed the room, caught her in his arms, and buried his face in her hair. She held him tightly, understanding his tumult, for recently, in essence, she had lost her own father.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were somber but there was a faint smile on his mouth. “Have I mentioned how lucky I am to have found you, Lou?”

“Once or twice.” She touched his cheek.

“Let me undress.”

He did so with slow movements unlike his usual haste, and she wasn’t surprised that when he led her to the bed he did nothing but lie down beside her and draw her into a comfortable embrace, his front to her back. “Life changes, does it not?”

“It does.” She could attest to the catastrophic twists of fate possible.

“I do not believe Lucien is dead.”

“Nor do I.” It was a loyal statement, though she had to admit it was puzzling to attach anything but possible tragedy to the marquess’s disappearance.

“If he is, I fear I will become duke.”

The quiet words held a newfound maturity quite different from that reckless young man she’d seen playing in the village street. “If it must be, you will do famously, I’m sure.”

“No one believes it, but I don’t want it.” His arms tightened around her just a fraction. “I
don’t
. I never have.”

She didn’t want to be a duchess either. At all. But she couldn’t bear to add to his burden, so she didn’t say so and instead she turned on her back so she could see his face. “
I
believe it.”

“Is that why I love you?” He kissed her lightly, without passion but with subtle tenderness. “Because you understand me?”

Her fingers ruffled his dark hair. “I am not sure why you love me, but I do count it as a blessing.”

“Ever the vicar’s daughter.” He laughed then, a bit of the roguish light she adored returning to his eyes.

“Prim and proper?”

“I am more than happy to say, neither one.” His grin gleamed, the old Charles resurfacing. The wicked Charles was never gone for long, she had discovered.

“We are all a sum of our parts.” She slapped him on the shoulder, laughing back. “I am both a vicar’s daughter and a rake’s wife.”

He nibbled at her earlobe. “At the moment, you are in bed with the rake.”

His arousal now pressed her hip. “I realize that.”

All levity dropped from his expression. “Lou, please . . . make me forget the world.”

He was right, she did understand him, at least to the extent that he was shaken by both his brother’s unexplained absence and his father’s illness, and what he wanted, what he needed, was an anchor as his world swirled into a vortex. He wasn’t an irresponsible man, she’d never thought so or she wouldn’t have married him, but neither was he prepared to have such grief and responsibility dumped on his shoulders all at once.

He even made love to her differently, with slow care, as if he treasured every caress, every movement of their bodies in sync as they sought pleasure, and when it was over, he murmured in her ear, “I cannot place a value on different types of love, but please know mine for you is immeasurable.”

“I’ll always be here,” she whispered back in reassurance, her hands smoothing his bare back.

And she hoped it would be true.

Later, when he drifted to sleep, relaxed and breathing easily in the darkness, she pondered the vagaries of life. There was nothing she regretted about her marriage. If an apology was owned to anyone, it was Vivian Lacrosse, and that was the single person who seemed to not demand one.

Chapter Nine
teen

Laughter was not what he’d expected. Lucien stood in front of the man who sat in a chair in an airy room with whitewashed walls and a window with a view of the sea.

He didn’t recognize him.

Light hair, somewhat curly, and hazel eyes, a face that might be affable if it wasn’t for the calculating coldness of his gaze. A negligent lift of his hand moved in dismissal for the man who had muscled Lucien into the room. The door closed with a thud.

When nothing was said, Lucien spoke first. “Artemis I presume.”

“Indeed.”

Clad in ill-fitting garments that weren’t precisely designed for his height or build, Lucien said caustically, “Thank you so much for the kind hospitality.”

“Was it kind? Then my orders were disregarded.”

“Not at all. Your minions are well trained.” Should he wrap his hands around the neck of his captor? Lucien wondered. How much satisfaction would he gain from killing him?

Instead of responding, the man reached for a bell pull. This time when the door opened, Bluecoat came in, only today he was dressed in bottle-green, once again the height of elegance, his thin face holding an expression of inquiry. “Sir?”

“Madison, who the devil is this?” The question was said in a mild tone, but there was a lethal edge to it.

“Northfield, of course.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Bluecoat, whose name was apparently Madison, looked visibly taken aback. “How could they make a mistake? My orders were specific and the description exactly what you gave me. Tall, dark-haired, around thirty years of age, resides in Mayfair, the son of a duke. He was seen coming out of Northfield’s townhouse.”

“All I know is this is not the man I wanted.”

“How is that possible? They’ve been following him to his club . . . everywhere. There can’t be a mistake.”

“My question exactly.”

Northfield
? Lucien was beginning to get an inkling of what had happened, but it didn’t help his current predicament.

Lucien interrupted, his voice cutting. “I am the Marquess of Stockton, the son of the Duke of Sanford. I was at Northfield’s residence recently because my fiancée is a good friend of his wife and if you were paying a modicum of attention, there are only a few exclusive clubs in London, so many of us belong to the same one. Surely after being dragged off, incarcerated on ship, and held prisoner for days, I deserve an explanation.”

Artemis transferred that chilling gaze back his direction. “You are not in a position to demand anything, lord or not. In fact, you are nothing but an inconvenience now. And I was about to say that Damien Northfield has dark eyes, not blue like our honored guest.”

The irony in the man’s voice didn’t escape him. Honored guest? That didn’t sound promising. He’d been treated shabbily already. How was an
inconvenience
dealt with?

Lucien processed that information. Even without Vivian’s friendship with Lady Lillian he knew Damien Northfield, of course. They’d attended Cambridge together, and before that Eton. The man had served with Wellington . . .

This was about the war.

Bloody hell
. Wasn’t it over?

“Northfield is an acquaintance, of course.” Lucien tried to sound calm and merely inquisitive. “What is it you want with him?”

“That is between us.” Artemis’s smile was thin. “But as it stands, let us say you should be glad you are not him after all, my lord.”

“I think I am.” Lucien inclined his head. All he could think about was Vivian. “But since we’ve determined this is a case of mistaken identity, allow me to just be on my way..”

Without answering, Artemis—which had to have been what he was called during the war and not his real name—looked at Madison. “Your ineptitude is annoying.”

“My apologies.” Madison bowed, his face drawn and his voice subdued.

“I really do not care what you do with him as long as it is discreet and final.”

Discreet wasn’t alarming, but Lucien didn’t like at all the sound of
final
. “Just let me go,” he urged, his body taut. “I’ll make my own way back to England.”

On his name alone he could raise funds, and if that wasn’t possible, he would swim if need be.

Vivian
.

He should have told her loved her. He should have confessed it all. Why hadn’t he? She’d deserved that much.

No, she’d deserved more.

“So you can warn my prey?” Artemis shook his head, a faint smile on his mouth that resembled a predatory shark circling a potential meal flailing in the water. “I don’t think that would be wise, do you? After all, you just admitted you are a close acquaintance. It is unfortunate the mistake was made, but it was, and the error is not reversible.”

“You would kill a man over an error you didn’t make yourself?”

“I’ve certainly killed for less, my lord.”

That wasn’t reassuring. Taking a moment to reassess the situation, he glanced around the room, noting the exotic Persian rug, the paintings, and the spectacular view over the bay. “Obviously you don’t need money. I would attempt a bribe for my release, but I have a feeling I would be wasting my breath.”

“No. I don’t need money.” Artemis leaned back, his gaze holding a macabre amusement. “The war did that for me. The emperor was quite generous when I was in his employ.”

Since the man was English from his accent, Lucien wanted nothing more than to lunge across the table and wrap his hands around his neck, but refrained, not certain he actually had the strength to throttle anyone at the moment. “So you are a traitor.”

“I am my own man.”

“How convenient,” he replied, no doubt helpless because he knew Madison carried a pistol, but still unwilling to concede the argument. “To claim detachment because of your lack of loyalty to any single flag. Tell me, since it appears my fate is sealed anyway, what did Northfield do to you?”

“We never did see eye to eye on the war. Shall we leave it at that?”

“That is no answer.”

“I don’t owe you one.”

“You’ve entirely disrupted my life. You owe me something.”

Those hazel eyes regarded him with compassionless scrutiny. He turned in dismissal. “Madison.”

Perhaps it was that more than anything. The negligent shrug that spelled an end to the conversation, not to mention that Lucien was practically swaying on his feet with weakness and it infuriated him to no end.

The window was open to the fresh ocean breeze. Warm sunlight poured in, and it was only maybe four or five steps away . . .

He had no idea just what was out there, but he did know what was in this room.
Death
.

Six steps, he discovered as he made a dash for it, and a full story downward since the house was apparently set into the side of a slope. Luckily, he missed the stone terrace by mere inches, hit the sand in a roll, and when he struggled to his feet, gasping, the bay was within reach.

Just yards, if he could get there. Someone shouted from the house, a bullet flew past his shoulder, and it was like being poked with a red-hot fire iron.

He ran toward the beach rather than trying to scale the headland. Not wildly, but with purpose, and when he waded into the water, he closed his eyes and said a prayer as he began to swim.

***

This was certainly a dire measure. Vivian wasn’t even sure it was acceptable to visit the austere Duchess of Eddington without an invitation, but she had never cared—and cared even less now—about convention, so she’d not bothered to consult either of her parents before taking what might be considered to be a drastic step.

“Her Grace will see you, Miss Lacrosse.” The butler sounded surprised and didn’t bother to conceal it. “Please follow me.”

“Thank you.” With what she hoped was composure she followed, and found herself taken upstairs into the private family apartments instead of the formal rooms, eventually ending up on a beautiful embroidered settee with a small glass of sherry in a private sitting room.

Clad in gray as usual, the duchess came in and sat down opposite, taking a set of spectacles off her nose. “I think I know why you are here, child.”

She did? That was interesting, for Vivian wasn’t positive why she’d impulsively ordered her father’s carriage without his permission or a chaperone, and took a chance on the duchess being home, much less receiving her.

“Don’t look so surprised.” The duchess never precisely smiled, but occasionally the set of her mouth indicated she was thinking about it. “I’ve been wondering myself if a call at this unfortunate time would be welcome or not, so you see, we are in accord. You wish for me to help you solve the disappearance of the marquess.”

That wasn’t precisely what she had in mind, so Vivian took a moment, and though it had been a while since she’d felt amusement of any kind, she wondered how Damien Northfield would feel if she agreed to make the duchess part of the investigation. However, she wasn’t quite that diabolical, and after all he was helping her,
and
he was Lily’s husband, so she shook her head. “No, Your Grace, though the offer is most generous. I want you to help me with my mother. I think you are the only one who can do it. My father won’t, and I cannot.”

“I see.” The duchess looked slightly disappointed, but her eyes took on a steely gleam and she nodded. “Help in what way?”

“She wants me to go on as if nothing has happened. I’m afraid I am either not that stalwart, or not that blasé. Lucien is missing. I refuse to attend any entertainments while I am beside myself with worry. A word from you and she will agree to let me retire to the country, which is what I wish.”

“You are still engaged to the marquess. Of course you cannot go on as if nothing has happened.”

“My exact thoughts. She seems to feel that I should put on a brave face and not play the jilted fiancée. Since I don’t think that is what has happened at all, I refuse to condemn his actions in any way.”

“I will take care of it immediately. Not that I defend her stance on the issue, I must say though she is probably distraught and no mother wants her child telling her what to do.”

That was probably true, so Vivian didn’t argue. All she wanted was to be able to retreat and wait for word—any word—from Lucien.

After a slight pause, she folded her hands and said quietly, “I am not just here for myself. The duke isn’t well.”

“What?” The duchess stopped in the act of taking a sip of sherry. “Sanford is ill?”

“I fear he wouldn’t appreciate me telling you.” Vivian shook her head.

“A passing malady then, brought on by his son’s disappearance.” The duchess said it as if her emphatic tone could control fate.

“I am not a physician, but I don’t think so. When did you see him last?” Vivian asked, uncertain if she should even have said anything.

“It’s been months.”

“He’s changed quite dramatically.”

For the first time since she’d met her, the duchess suddenly looked her age. Deeper lines by her mouth and a parchment-like cast to her skin gave her a drawn appearance. “That is most unwelcome news.”

She watched the older woman stare at the opposite wall. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace.”

“Don’t apologize. Age is a blessing and curse. Now then, what you are telling me is that we must find your young man immediately not just for your sake, but for that of his father.”

“And also for Charles. He has hired investigators and I have asked a friend who might have some influence to help us, but as far as I know, nothing has come of it.”

She turned back and shrewd eyes regarded Vivian with steady appraisal. “Charles? I realize he is one of those males women find infinitely charming and I am fond of him myself, but I am surprised you are so forgiving of that young man. After all, he abandoned you for his pretty little vicar’s daughter.”

“Of course I forgive him. He’s quite in love with Louisa.”

“Yes, he is,” the duchess admitted. “One does not have to spend much time with them to see it.”

“And he has hardly abandoned me. If not for him, right now I would be truly in despair.”

“You are an odd child.” The duchess tilted her head slightly. “But I admire your independent spirit and your loyalty. I will speak with your mother.”

“Thank you.”

“What will you do in the country then? Fiddle with your plants?”

Fiddle
was a somewhat interesting way to put it, but Vivian was used to people not understanding her interest in botany. “The duke has asked me to look in on his new experiment. Perhaps it will take both our minds off the situation.”

“He will enjoy that, I’m sure, if I know Sanford.”

It was true that the duke’s invitation had come as somewhat of a surprise, but she would much rather spend her time in the ducal conservatory than under scrutiny by the
ton
. In his courtly way he’d asked her if she might want to retire to Cheynes Hall in the countryside and wait for word of Lucien, as that appealed to him much more than the bustle of London.

Between the duke’s invitation and the duchess taking her side, she was fairly sure she would win the battle. A relief, really, since she was simply not up to the curious looks and speculation. In fact, she felt queasy just thinking about it and a little rest would be welcome. For some reason she felt inexplicably tired, but then again, couldn’t sleep at night.

It was grueling, but she was coming to the conclusion that Lucien might really be gone. Each day that passed solidified the unwelcome reality.

Truly, she needed to get out of London.

“Your Grace, I appreciate very much all you have done for me.”

“Until you marry Stockton, I’ve done nothing.” The duchess sounded more reflective than anything, an implied sigh in her tone. “This is all so mysterious and unexpected. I admit I thought you made quite a striking couple. When dressed properly and given a maid who can actually manage your hair, you are a very beautiful young woman. I’m sure I don’t need to point to you that the marquess is a handsome man, so in short, between youth and a true attraction between you . . . my dear, are you quite well?”

No, she wasn’t, Vivian realized with a sinking feeling that added to the disorder of her roiling stomach. She actually wasn’t well at all. “Perhaps the sherry was a poor idea,” she whispered, setting the glass aside with a shaking hand. “I haven’t been feeling quite right for the past week or so. It will pass quickly.”