Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (24 page)

She didn’t wish anything. She was angry. His failure to tell her about his wedding and subsequent move had put her at great risk. And he’d never told her about their father. Of course she was furious. But . . .

Frederick was her
twin
. Shouldn’t she feel something for him other than anger? Jack seemed so close to his brother—

She could not compare. Jack and Ned were the same gender. They understood each other. And they had the benefit of attentive parents.

Frederick was scowling at her. “I wrote to Viola. I assumed the poisonous old witch would tell you. You and she are so damn close.”

“Close?” How could Frederick say such a thing? “I’m not close to Viola.”
Especially after her treachery with Littleton.
“I never was.”

He snorted. “Oh, come on, Frances. She doted on you. You were the perfect child. You could do no wrong.”

Was her brother insane? “Viola did
not
dote on me.” Viola hadn’t held her back, that was true. She hadn’t had any nonsensical notions of what was proper for a female to learn, so she’d let Frances take lessons with Frederick in Latin and mathematics and anything else he studied—and hadn’t forced her to do silly, feminine things like sewing and painting and dancing.

Well, all right, learning to dance would have been good.

And Viola hadn’t tried to keep Frances from managing Landsford. But her aunt had never been happy with her efforts, no matter how hard she’d worked.

Frederick’s mouth twisted with scorn. “Oh no? Viola was forever telling me how smart you were, how you learned to read before I did, how you could add and subtract faster than I.”

Well, what did he expect? She
was
smarter than he. All their tutors had said so. They—and Aunt Viola—had often teased Frederick that a girl could best him, and yet that had never motivated him to work harder.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him exactly that, but suddenly she remembered Jack teaching her to dance. Neither he nor his family had ever once hinted at how socially backward and inept she was compared to even the youngest debutante. If they had, that would likely have killed her very small desire to learn the blasted steps.

“Viola never praised anything I did,” Frederick was saying. “If she’d tried, I swear she would have choked on the words.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “It was the constant criticism, the never-ending belittlement, the bloody scorn that ate at me. Father said she was just as bad when he was growing up—and she was forever harping about how Landsford should have been hers, since she was the elder.”

She’d begun to feel some compassion for Frederick, but his mentioning their bloody father stopped that cold. Damn it, whatever Frederick had suffered at Viola’s hands was nothing compared to the way their father had ignored her. “Well, Landsford
should
have been Viola’s.” Viola would certainly have been a better steward of the property than their bloody father.

“No, it should not have been.” Frederick gave her a look of disgust.

Idiot male. “A woman is just as capable of running an estate as a man.”

“And a second son is just as capable as a first son,” Frederick said, “but the law says it’s the oldest male who inherits.”

“Then the law should be changed. It’s not fair.”

Frederick actually rolled his eyes. “Frances, primogeniture
isn’t
fair. Is Lord Jack whining because he won’t inherit Greycliffe’s vast holdings?”

“N-no.” Jack
could
have envied his brother Ash . . . But the situation was not the same at all. “He’s a man. He can do anything he wants.”

“No, he can’t. He can’t become the next Duke of Greycliffe, can he? Not unless both his brothers die without sons.”

Frederick was being purposely obtuse. “Jack doesn’t want to be the duke.”

“No? Or perhaps he’s just smart enough not to want what he can’t have. Just as you should be.” He threw his hands up in the air to emphasize his point. “Damn it, Frances, stop trying to be a man, and be a woman for once, will you?”

Oh God. She felt as if she’d been hit in the stomach. Is that how he—how everyone—saw her: as a woman trying to be a man?

Is that how
Jack
saw her?

But if she hadn’t been willing to take charge and do what the world considered unfeminine, the estate would have been much the worse for it. “You and our father were happy enough to allow this
woman
to run Landsford all these years. You never once looked at a single estate ledger, Frederick.”

“Because you wouldn’t let me near them. Why do you think I took up botany? It got me out in the fields away from you viragoes.”

He thought her a virago? He lumped her in the same category as Viola? She closed her eyes briefly. She was angry; that’s what this painful feeling was.

She tried to marshal her composure. There was no point in continuing this argument. “In any event, Viola did not tell me you had wed. She was too busy trying to trick me into marrying Felix Littleton.”

“Really?” Frederick’s eyebrows rose. He looked moderately interested. “Why’d she do that?”

“From what I could sift out of all the invective she threw at me, you were going to kick her out of Landsford, and she wanted to ensure herself a comfortable home. The price for her assistance was that Littleton allow her to accompany me and live at his estate.”

Frederick snorted. “Viola would have got a rude surprise there. Littleton’s estate is hardly more than a pile of rubble. But I am surprised she was so ready to sacrifice you.” He shrugged. “I suppose she must have realized Father would never approve your daft idea of taking your dowry money and renting a cottage.”

“You knew about my plan?” Bloody hell, how long had the damned men been discussing her?

“Of course I did. Puddington, Father, and I all had a good laugh about it.”

They’d been laughing at her? Embarrassment, hurt, and anger warred in her chest. Anger won.

Damn it, she was going to strangle Frederick.

She fisted her hands, digging her nails into her palms. No. She could not stoop to that level. But hell, she’d gone to all this trouble, come to London and exposed herself to Lord Jack’s fatal charms, and everyone had been
laughing
at her. Puddington, her brother.

Her father.

Her father was a rake, a bounder, a blackguard. She didn’t care what he thought of her.

So why did she still feel so hurt?

“And I’m not going to toss you out on the street, of course,” Frederick said, “but as I wrote to Viola, now that I’m married, I’m planning to come back to Landsford, and frankly, I don’t think my wife will care to have you—or Viola—in residence.” He looked down, straightening his coat sleeves. “I’ve discussed the matter with Puddington and Father. We’ve found a tidy little house just outside Bath that you and Viola can remove to.”

Oh! This was too much, these jingle-brained men deciding her life for her. “I don’t want to live with Viola.” Nor did she want to live near Bath, where all the old hypochondriacs went to drink the waters.

He shrugged. “I completely understand that, but I’m afraid there’s no other solution. You can’t live alone. It just isn’t done, and now that I’ll have a family, I can’t have you sullying my name.” He glared at her. “You’ve already done enough of that with this demented—and scandalous—run up to Town.”

“Sullying your name?” She hadn’t thought she could get any angrier.

“Yes.” Frederick looked so blasted supercilious. “Frankly I’m shocked the duchess let you cross her threshold after you dressed as a boy and slept in the same bed as her son. And Rothmarsh! He’s so damn high in the instep he virtually blackballs our father from all of society, yet he welcomes you, a girl who’s little better than a light-skirt.”

“Nothing happened at the Crowing Cock!” She took a deep breath. She would not shout. She would not hit Frederick. She would not.

But, oh, how she itched to do so.

“Right. You spend the night alone in bed with London’s premier rake, and you still have your virginity. Bloody hell, Frances, I know you always thought me slow-witted, but I’m not that much of a knock in the cradle.”

“It’s true, damn it.”

Frederick just lifted a mocking brow.

Jack had told her no one would believe her, and of course Pettigrew had not, but it was beyond maddening to face it in her own brother.

Well, he was a fine one to talk.

“I don’t see how I can sully your name—
our
name,” she said. “Our father ran off with our mother and then deserted us—or deserted me—and likely has half a dozen bastards all over the globe—”

Frederick opened his mouth as if he was going to object, but Frances rushed on.

“—and
you
married a prostitute.”

His face turned purple, and he stalked up to her until he was only inches away. She could see a vein throbbing in his forehead.

She’d admit to being a little afraid, but she was also still very, very angry. She held her ground.

“I never want to hear you say that again.” He bit off each word. “Maria worked at the theater as a seamstress. She was never ever a—” He swallowed. “She was never what you said she was. She’s a lovely, quiet,
ladylike
woman—nothing like you. And if you want to know the truth of it, I didn’t tell you I was getting married because I knew you’d be mean and hateful and cruel to Maria, and I would not and will not tolerate that. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She would not have been cruel to Frederick’s wife. Of course she wouldn’t have. “I—”

Frederick spun away from her, grabbed his hat, and shoved it on his head. “I don’t want to hear another word from you. Good day. I will find my own way out.” He slammed the parlor door behind him.

“I . . .” Frances stared at the closed door for a moment, and then the tears she’d been holding back overwhelmed her. She collapsed onto the most uncomfortable settee she’d ever encountered, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.

 

 

Jack had retreated to the library and was trying to concentrate on puzzling out the Slasher’s identity, but his mind kept drifting back to the yellow parlor.

“Do you think any of the knickknacks will survive Miss Hadley’s meeting with her brother, Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare put his head down on his paws and arched his brows in a worried fashion. Clearly he’d not give that possibility good odds.

“At least there’s nothing there that Mama particularly values. I don’t understand why she doesn’t just throw it all out and start over. Perhaps the Hadleys will do us a favor and splinter one or two of the chairs.”

He looked up at the clock on the mantel. How much longer should he leave them alone? He’d told Braxton to listen for any sounds of violence. Frances was safe . . . wasn’t she?

The door swung open; Jack and Shakespeare sprang to their feet. “Yes, Braxton?” The butler did not look happy.

“Mr. Hadley has just left, milord, so far forgetting himself as to slam the parlor door in his departure.”

“And Miss Hadley?”

Braxton pulled on his waistcoat, an alarming sign of how upset he was. “Not seeing Miss Hadley emerge as well, I took the liberty of listening at the keyhole.”

“And?” Jack wanted to strangle someone, and Braxton was the handiest candidate.

The butler’s eyes widened in alarm, as if he comprehended the direction of Jack’s thoughts. “I’m sorry to report, milord, that I believe I heard Miss Hadley crying.”

“Bloody hell!”
Jack brushed by Braxton, intent only on getting to the yellow parlor as quickly as possible. If Hadley had laid a finger on Frances—if he’d even brushed her dress with a fingernail—Jack was going to twist the swine’s head off and ram it up his—

Well, first he should talk to Frances. She likely wouldn’t care for him mutilating her brother without her consent.

He should never have left the two of them alone.

He paused at the parlor door, took a deep breath—and heard a sob.

He’d thought he couldn’t feel angrier, but he was wrong. Scalding hot fury cascaded through him, actually blinding him for a moment. All he could see were his fingers wrapped around Hadley’s throat—

He struggled for control. If Hadley
had
hurt Frances, the last thing he should do would be to storm into the room angry. He’d learned that from dealing with the women and children he’d brought out of the stews. Emotion begot emotion, and anger—even if on someone’s behalf—begot anger and fear. What Frances needed most was a calm, nonjudgmental listener.

Shakespeare butted Jack’s leg with his nose and looked up, clearly asking why he was delaying.

He took another deep breath, forced his muscles to relax, and opened the door. Frances looked up from her perch on the settee.

“Go away.” She sniffed. “Leave me alone.”

He approached cautiously. Shakespeare, the coward, turned tail and deserted him.

“Are you all right?” He didn’t see any bruises or cuts.

“Yes.” She sniffed again and tried to wipe the tears off her face with her fingers.

Liar. “Then why are you crying?”

“I-I’m n-not.” Her voice quavered.

He offered her his handkerchief. She glared at him, but then snatched it out of his fingers.

He sat down slowly next to her on the settee, careful to leave some space between them.

“Your brother didn’t touch you, did he?” He struggled to keep his tone level and conversational.

She paused, his handkerchief held over her nose. “What do you mean?”

“Did he put his hands on you?” He had to keep his expression neutral as well. “Did he hit you or push you?”

She frowned at him and then blew her nose. “No, of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”

A hard, tight knot loosened in his chest, and he exhaled slowly. Thank God. “Your brother was very angry. I didn’t think he would do you an injury—I would never have left you alone if I had—but I was afraid I’d been wrong when I saw you crying.”