Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (22 page)

“Yes. She was extremely upset that her name had been mentioned in the newspaper accounts and insisted she knew nothing about the matter; that she’d left early—and alone—because she had the headache.”

“Hmm.” Jack nodded. “It’s quite possible Lady Barbara was on the watch for any early departures so she could spin a plausible tale for her mother.” Damn it, he felt so helpless. He looked out over the crowded ballroom. Was the murderer one of the men present? “Who do you think the Slasher is?”

“Ruland and Botsley seem the most logical choices. Both were at the events from which Miss Fielding, Mrs. Hubble, and Lady Barbara disappeared, and both were absent after the ladies left. Both frequent the stews, and both are heartless, soulless scum—but merely being human vermin doesn’t prove either of them is the murderer. And no one can definitively place either of them with the women.” Trent let out a long, annoyed breath. “If only we could find a witness.”

They were back to that. “Nan’s certain the killer is Ruland, but she’s got no evidence either. She just doesn’t like the man,” Jack said. “I’d put my money on Botsley. Ruland’s a bully, but not, I think, capable of killing.”

“But you have no evidence of that.”

Jack nodded. “True.”

“Blast!” Trent’s jaw clenched. “The devil of it is we may have to wait for another poor girl to be murdered, and even then we may not be any closer to catching the bounder.”

“I know.” Jack should be working on finding the Slasher, not standing in a ballroom. “I have boys shadowing both Botsley and Ruland, and Nan is trying to watch out for the Covent Garden girls. We’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open and hope we catch the scoundrel before he strikes again.” Not a very satisfactory course of action.

“Speaking of scoundrels, I see Ned’s brother-in-law has arrived.”

“What? Oh, damn.” Sir Percy was just entering the ballroom. It had been a little over a week since Ned had thrashed him at the Valentine party, but it looked as if most of the bruises had faded—or been covered with powder.

“Should we add him to the list of suspects?” Trent asked. “I wouldn’t put murder past him.”

“No.” Jack didn’t like Percy either—hadn’t liked him even as a child—but he was certain the man wasn’t the Slasher. “Percy’s a bully like Ruland, but I doubt he’d kill anyone. And in any event, he was at Greycliffe Castle with me when Martha was murdered.”

“Right—the Duchess of Love’s annual Valentine house party. Happily, I’ve managed so far to escape the guest list.”

“A shocking oversight! I’ll be sure to suggest your name to Mama for next year’s gathering.”

Trent looked a bit alarmed. “You wouldn’t really stab me in the back like that, would you?”

Jack laughed. “Of course not.”

“Good, because I know where I can get copies of the Duchess of Love’s
Love Notes
, and if I ever find myself invited, I’ll tie you to a tree and read you every last word she’s written.”

“I’d like to see you try. Who do you know that has copies of that miserable rag?”

Trent grinned. “My mother.”

“Good God! Your mother needs to read my mother’s advice on love?”

Trent grimaced. “I have no idea why she has them, nor do I wish to contemplate that question.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

“Ah, Jack, so good to see you again.” The voice came from slightly behind his right shoulder.

Damn! Why was Percy seeking him out? He turned to look at Cicely’s—Ned’s first wife’s—brother. “Hallo, Percy. You look, ah, much recovered.” Percy was definitely using powder to mask his lingering bruises.

Percy smiled stiffly and nodded to Trent. Trent, the coward, nodded back and fled.

“Yes. I’m much better, thank you.” Percy inclined his head toward where Ned and Ellie were talking to another couple. “I confess I didn’t expect the nuptials, though I suppose your mother has been trying to get Ned to marry Ellie ever since Cicely died.”

What was Percy implying? “We all miss Cicely, of course, but we’re glad Ned could finally move beyond his mourning. He and Ellie have known each other forever, so their marriage should not be surprising at all.”

“Perhaps.” Percy let that go. “What
is
surprising is that Ash didn’t come to Town for the ceremony. It’s an easy ride from the castle to London. I hope he’s well?”

Percy didn’t hope anything of the kind, and Ash wasn’t at the castle. “Oh yes, Ash is disgustingly healthy. He just had another commitment.”

Percy’s brows rose. “Something more pressing than his brother’s wedding? My, my. You do know the
ton
will likely attribute his absence to a case of sour grapes. It’s no secret Ellie has favored Ash at your mother’s parties.”

Likely Percy would encourage that sentiment, as ridiculous as it was. “The cabbageheaded members of the
ton
will think what they will—facts and logic have never stopped them before. Don’t cause trouble for Ash, Percy.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.” Percy smiled, making Jack think, as always, of a snake. “But enough about your brothers; tell me about yourself. I’ve heard such interesting rumors about you recently, much more interesting than the usual fare.”

The set was coming to a close. Jack glanced over to see how Frances was managing with Pettigrew. He should warn her to avoid Percy—nothing good could come of any conversation between them.

“Yes,” Percy said, obviously following his gaze. “Rothmarsh’s granddaughter. Everyone says you played a very interesting role in her journey to Town. And she’s staying here, rather than with her grandparents. How . . . convenient.”

Pettigrew was leading Frances away, likely to the refreshment room. She did not look happy about it.

“I would greatly enjoy adding to Ned’s handiwork, Percy—good job hiding the bruises, by the way—but unfortunately I have more important matters to attend to at the moment. Do try not to be more of an idiot than usual, will you?”

Jack strode off to rescue Frances.

Thank God! Frances tried to hide her relief as the orchestra played the last note. She’d survived her dance with Mr. Pettigrew without permanent injury. Now she wanted to get free of the unpleasant man as quickly as possible.

Mr. Littleton was here, too, but thankfully he’d limited himself to a few pointed glares. He hadn’t tried to approach her.

“May I escort you to the refreshment room, Miss Hadley?” Mr. Pettigrew asked. “You really should try the duchess’s lobster patties. They are the best in London. In fact, I will even say they are the best in all of England.”

“I’m afraid I’m not hungry, Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Some lemonade then? There’s nothing better to quench a lady’s thirst than lemonade—and nothing better to raise a thirst than dancing.”

Clearly the man was not going to take no for an answer. She
was
a little thirsty, and she didn’t want to give Mr. Pettigrew the impression she was afraid of him. “Very well. Thank you, sir. That would be pleasant.” She allowed him to lead her out of the room.

She could not like the man. He was Mr. Littleton’s friend and had done nothing to dissuade him from trying to trap her into wedlock. On the contrary, Mr. Pettigrew had laughed and encouraged the little weasel. She’d swear he’d taken great delight in holding his knowledge of her identity over her head at the Crowing Cock and then in Jack’s curricle, and she’d be willing to wager he’d taken even greater delight in spreading the tale far and wide.

But even if she were meeting him now for the first time, she would not care for him. He was so big, she felt as if she were being escorted by a large bear. She hadn’t noticed at the Crowing Cock—likely because she’d only seen him seated—that he was tall, though probably not as tall as Jack. But he was a good seven or eight stone heavier, with big bones and an even bigger belly.

She felt small—and not in a good way—at his side.

And his smell! She’d detected an unpleasant, sour odor when he’d asked her to stand up with him, but the exertion of the dance had made the stench many times worse. He was clearly—overpoweringly so—not a proponent of frequent bathing.

She started breathing through her mouth.

Mr. Pettigrew leaned closer as they left the ballroom and murmured, “How did you get the duchess to accept you?”

His garlic- and onion-laced breath momentarily stupefied her. “Pardon me?” Would he notice if she held her handkerchief over her nose?

“The duchess.” His gaze sharpened. “How did you get her to take you in after you’d slept with her son?”

Zeus! She felt as if she’d been hit in the stomach. She struggled to fill her lungs with air and keep her hand from slapping the slimy scoundrel senseless. Pettigrew’s insulting eyes suggested that something of a more salacious nature than two people slumbering in the same bed had occurred.

She wanted to defend her virtue and tell him that her stay at the inn had been completely innocent, but arguing that point would be like waltzing on quicksand. The fact was she
had
slept with Lord Jack.

Perhaps the best plan was to ignore the subject completely.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen Mr. Dantley here tonight. Is he well?”

He blinked, and the peculiar intensity in his eyes vanished. “He had to go home. His mother’s ill, and so he’s been in the country more than in Town recently.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope it is nothing serious?”

They stopped by the pitchers of lemonade. “I don’t believe it is,” he said, pouring a glass and handing it to her. “His mother tends to hypochondria.”

“Ah.” She took a sip, scouring her mind for another conversational topic.

Unfortunately, Mr. Pettigrew beat her to it, choosing one almost as distasteful as his initial selection—not surprising as Mr. Pettigrew himself was extremely distasteful.

“I assume you saw that Littleton’s here?” He turned away to procure a glass of champagne—clearly not his first. “You’ll be happy to know his father fished him out of the River Tick, so he has a little more time to look around him for a wife.”

Mr. Pettigrew’s appearance would be much improved by a glass of lemonade dashed in his face. “I am
not
happy to know it.” Good Lord, so Littleton was going to try to trap some other unsuspecting female? Despicable! “Frankly, Mr. Pettigrew, your friend needs to learn economy, not cozen some poor girl into throwing her life away by marrying him.”

He looked down his large nose at her. “That’s an interesting thing for you to say. I’m sure you’ll be wishing you hadn’t run from him, madam, as no one will offer for you now. Rather a soiled dove, aren’t you?” He had that annoyingly intent look in his eyes again. “It’s shocking Rothmarsh recognized you, but then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone says your mother was wild. The dam bred true, eh?”

She would
not
throw her lemonade in his face. She did not wish to cause a scene in the Duchess of Greycliffe’s refreshment room, but, oh, she would so like to see him covered in the sticky liquid. She would offer him a handsome helping of her opinion instead—

“Does Rothmarsh know your brother married a Covent Garden nun?”

She choked on her lemonade. What was this? “A nun? Oh no, I don’t think—that is, I’ve yet to meet my brother’s wife, but I can’t imagine . . . I mean, where would he have found one? Are there nuns in England?”

He stared at her. “I meant a prostitute.”

She stared back at him. The man
must
be drunk to so totally forget his manners. Well, she would struggle to hold on to hers. “As I said, I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting my brother’s wife, but I believe my father approves of the match.” After all, upon his son’s nuptials, he’d instructed Puddington to have Frederick move to a better apartment rather than cutting him off without a sou.

Mr. Pettigrew snorted and took a swallow of champagne. “He would.”

Dear heavens, this conversation was only getting worse. The damnable thing was, she couldn’t really disagree with Mr. Pettigrew on this particular point. She sipped her lemonade and looked around the refreshment room. The only guests present at the moment were young men availing themselves of the duchess’s lobster patties. None of them looked like hero material, willing to sacrifice even one bite of lobster to rescue her.

Not that she needed anyone’s help. She would just finish her lemonade and rescue herself.

“Let’s take a stroll in the gardens,” Pettigrew said. “It’s uncomfortably hot in here.”

The man was a candidate for Bedlam. Yes, it was very warm, but why would he think she’d want to spend one moment longer than she had to in his objectionable company?

Good God, surely he didn’t think she was a wanton from whom he could steal a kiss, or worse? The thought of his garlicky lips on hers, his large sweaty body so close . . .

Ugh!

“No, thank you.”

He frowned and opened his mouth as if to argue, but this time she spoke quickly. “Do you intend to stay in London long, sir?” Please let him have friends in Yorkshire—or better, Scotland—that he was planning to visit for an extended period.

He shrugged. “Oh yes. Like Lord Jack, I spend almost all my time here. The country is dreadfully dull.”

“Did I hear my name?”

Splendid! Jack had finally torn himself away from the flock of females fluttering around him in the ballroom. She’d swear every woman under the age of forty had singled him out for a smile and a bit of conversation. And of course he’d been happy to oblige them all.

She turned and smiled up at him. But he was here now. He would make her escape look like a normal, unhurried departure.

Another, warmer emotion flooded her when Jack smiled back.

Damn it, she should not be feeling this way. In a few weeks—a month or two at the most—she would have left London. Lord Jack would be only a memory. He might be a necessary companion now, but he was a very short-term one.

“I was only saying we both prefer London to the country,” Mr. Pettigrew said.

Jack looked thoughtful. “I don’t know that I prefer Town. There’s just more here to keep me busy.”

“Yes indeed. Far more.” Mr. Pettigrew offered a rather wooden smile. “And when I’m in London, I don’t have to listen to my father drone on and on about sheep.”

“You’ll inherit those sheep one day, you know,” Jack said.

Mr. Pettigrew grimaced. “I know.”

So Mr. Pettigrew was like her brother, taking his good fortune for granted and completely ignoring any corresponding duties. “Do you have any siblings, Mr. Pettigrew?”

Perhaps some of her annoyance showed in her tone. Jack gave her a quelling look and shook his head slightly.

“Just an older sister.”

An older sister who, in a more enlightened world, would be the heir instead of this lazy, irresponsible, beetle-headed man. “I see. So—ouch!”

Lord Jack had trod upon her foot. She glared at him, but he ignored her.

“If you’ll excuse us, Pettigrew, I believe my mother wishes to speak to Miss Hadley.”

“Of course. Don’t let me keep you. And please tell the duchess how much I enjoy her lobster patties.” Mr. Pettigrew bowed and headed toward the buffet.

“You’re lying,” Frances hissed as she walked back to the ballroom with Jack. “Your mother doesn’t want to see me.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured as he nodded at an old woman with a forest of puce plumes on her head, “I’m certain she’d like to point out that antagonizing Pettigrew is a useless and very unwise thing to do.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying you should be more prudent. Gifting him with your opinion on primogeniture will not make him any more responsible, but it may well anger him, and an angry man is far more apt to relish spreading damning stories. I—oh, blast.”

“What—oh.” Lord Ruland was coming toward them. “Was he lying in wait for us?”

“Probably. He’s another it would be unwise to antagonize.”

“I
know
that. Can’t we dodge him?”

“That would only delay the inevitable,” Jack muttered and then Lord Ruland was within earshot.

“Lord Jack,” Ruland said, “and Master—” His beady eyes slid from Frances’s head to her slippers, and his thick, furry eyebrows arched insolently up toward his bald head. “Or, should I say,
Miss
Haddon? But I don’t believe that surname is quite right, either. What is your name, my dear?”

It would have been far more polite for Ruland to ask Jack to present him rather than refer to their awkward first encounter, but she already knew the earl was not one to be overly courteous. Well, she was not going to let him intimidate her. She looked him in his nasty little eyes. “Miss Frances Hadley.”

“Miss Hadley is Rothmarsh’s granddaughter, Ruland,” Jack said, moving forward just slightly so he seemed to be sheltering her from the man, “and my mother’s newest protégé.”

“Ah yes, now I see the resemblance. When you are wearing skirts, Miss Hadley, you look very much like your mother.”

So the man had known her mother. She shouldn’t be surprised. Likely many of the men his age had.

His lips curved up in a very unpleasant smile, and her palm itched to slap him.

“But the gossip about you is even more interesting than it was about her when she eloped,” he said.

“I’m sure you realize that it’s never—” Jack paused. He was still smiling, but his eyes were suddenly hard. “—
wise
to listen to gossip.”

Lord Ruland was either very brave or very stupid. He looked blandly back at Jack. “Ah, but one of the most interesting details I witnessed myself, didn’t I?” He switched his attention back to Frances. “I wonder if Lord Rothmarsh knows his granddaughter was capering about a brothel in breeches?”

“I was
not
capering.” That was a rather stupid thing to say, but it just burst out of her.

Jack had been looking like a thundercloud, but he laughed then. “Of course you weren’t. Now if you’ll excuse us, Ruland?”

Jack led her over to where the duchess was standing with Lady Rothmarsh. She forced herself to look ahead, but she’d swear she could feel Ruland’s nasty eyes burning holes in her back.

 

 

“Are you enjoying your wedding ball?” Not that Jack really needed to ask. Ned was holding up a pillar, scowling at Ellie, who was dancing with Trent’s youngest brother, Peter. Trent was partnering Frances in the same set.

“No, I’m not. I’m more than ready to take Ellie upstairs to b—” Ned cleared his throat and his cheeks flushed. “To go to sleep. It’s been a tiring day. Ellie’s exhausted.”

She didn’t look exhausted. She looked happy, happier than Jack had ever seen her, as if she’d just got her heart’s desire. Which she had. She was finally Ned’s wife.

What would it be like to have a woman love you so wholeheartedly?

If Frances . . .

But Frances wouldn’t. And he was too young to consider marriage anyway. With the exception of Mama and Father, early marriages rarely prospered. Look at Ned’s first marriage. Look at Ash’s.

He would just keep using the accommodating women at the brothels and wait until he was thirty or so to take a wife.

“Ellie looks like she’s enjoying herself,” he said. His eyes slid back to Frances. Her expression was far more serious, as if she was still counting her steps.

He’d been very lucky she hadn’t bitten him when he’d kissed her in the park yesterday. Likely it was only her surprise and shock that had saved him.

What was
her
heart’s desire?

Him?

Good God, he was insane. Her heart’s desire was for England’s laws of primogeniture to be amended so she could inherit Landsford.