Not the Dukes Darling by Hoyt, Elizabeth (12)

It was just after midnight when Christopher was woken by Tess’s low growling.

He lifted his head, listening in the darkness, and heard footsteps in the hall outside his door. His room was at the corner of the hallway and there was only one room beyond the turn.

Plimpton’s.

Surely the man wouldn’t be such an idiot as to return.

But then again, he had left half his possessions behind. To a man in financial straits a suit and a pair of boots might be worth the risk.

Christopher pulled on his shirt, breeches, stockings, and shoes, and then quietly opened the door to his room. If he craned his neck he could just see around the corner.

There was a light beneath Plimpton’s door.

Tess followed Christopher as he stalked into the hall, rage making his shoulders bunch. Plimpton had been the one to contact him with his outrageous demands. Plimpton had insisted on meeting him at this house party. Plimpton had locked Christopher and Freya in a ghastly, dark, cramped little well house.

And then Plimpton had run away.

The man acted like a nervous virgin with Christopher in the role of pursuing satyr.

Except the woman he’d actually pursued hadn’t bothered to run. She’d simply stood her ground and turned him down flat.

But then Freya was by any measure the more courageous of the two.

He reached Plimpton’s room and knocked at the door.

There was a rustle from within and then silence.

“Plimpton,” Christopher growled, his mouth close to the door. “Let me in or I’ll kick this bloody door down.”

He heard fumbling on the other side, and then the door opened a crack.

Plimpton’s handsome face, looking rather less handsome than usual due to a sheen of sweat over the surface, peered out. “Harlowe. The thing is, I really can’t give you the letters without the money. You see—”

Christopher set his palm against the door and shoved it open.

Plimpton apparently hadn’t been expecting that. He stumbled back into the room.

Christopher kicked the door closed behind him. “You locked me and Miss Stewart in the damned well house.”

Plimpton’s eyes went wide. “I don’t—”

“Whatever do you have against Miss Stewart?”

“That was an accident.”

“You blindfolded her and then padlocked the door.” Christopher advanced on the man, rage creating a red mist before his eyes. “She might’ve died in there.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Plimpton was backing up, but he’d hit the wall.

“Where are the letters?”

“I don’t—”

“I’ve had enough of your sniveling excuses. Did you bring the letters or not?”

“O-of course,” Plimpton stuttered.

“All of the letters?”

Plimpton’s features twisted with distress. “I-I can’t—”

Christopher growled.

“Yes!” Plimpton mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “Good Lord, this is why I thought to lock you in that well house in the first place. You’re violent. I fled yesterday because I was sure you were going to kill me. It was only because I’d run out of funds at the local inn that I returned. All I want is the money you have. You needn’t be so beastly.”

“You seduced Sophy,” Christopher snarled. “And now that she’s dead you’re using her memory and good name to blackmail me. If anyone is beastly, it’s you.”

“Unfair!” cried Plimpton. “It’s just that I’m in need of a bit of ready blunt. I’m overextended, I’ve got tradesmen pounding at my door, demanding I pay my bills and refusing to extend my credit. You can easily afford to pay me. I doubt you’ll even notice the money’s gone from your ducal coffers,” he finished rather resentfully.

“Not notice ten thousand pounds?” Christopher shouted. “I’d have to be Midas himself to not notice that.”

“You owe me,” Plimpton retorted, taking another tack. “You all but abandoned poor dear Sophy. She used to cry on my shoulder, she was so lonely and miserable. I was her friend—her only friend—in Calcutta. She loved me.”

For a moment Christopher closed his eyes with pure, inarticulate fury.

When he opened them again, Plimpton was watching him with a self-righteous frown on his face.

“I owe you nothing at all.” Christopher inhaled and said very, very softly, “Yes, Sophy no doubt thought she loved you. After all”—he gestured to the man—“You’re pretty enough, you dress stylishly, if cheaply, and you have a sort of surface charm. So she loved you. And when the nawab’s army came, you ran away and left her to her fate like the bloody coward you are.”

Plimpton was looking outraged. Which might explain the unwary reply he made. “Her fate was that you killed her in that Black Hole.”

Christopher gave up all pretense of civility and punched him in the face.

“James the footman’s found a scullery maid let go just last week,” Messalina murmured in Freya’s ear. The other ladies were still debating marriage and a woman’s position in society while Freya had taken a seat a little apart by the fire.

Freya turned to stare at Messalina, only inches from her face. “So soon?” And she hadn’t explicitly told James to search for other servants dismissed from the Randolph household. The footman showed a nice ability to think for himself.

Messalina nodded. “The girl is in hiding at her uncle’s cottage. He says he can bring her here so we can question her.”

“When?” There was only a week left of the house party. After that everyone would go back to London—and Freya would be forced to retreat to Dornoch by order of the Hags.

Unless she found new information—real information—against Randolph so that she could make a plea to delay her return.

Messalina shrugged. “We asked James to bring the scullery maid at once, but he says she’s scared out of her mind. It may take some time for him to persuade her.”

Freya was still working through that information when she heard the scream.

She blinked and glanced at her glass of brandy—her second glass. But then she looked up and realized everyone else had heard the scream as well.

“Good Lord,” Lady Lovejoy exclaimed. “Whatever is it?”

She rose as Lady Holland struggled into a wrapper with Selby’s aid and the other ladies jumped up as well.

“I suppose we ought to go see who it is,” Messalina said, frowning.

“Yes, indeed,” Lucretia exclaimed. She was already at the door.

They spilled into the hall, where they found Lord Lovejoy and the Earl of Rookewoode running toward the part of the house where most of the gentlemen’s rooms were.

Lord Lovejoy stopped when he saw them. “I’m sure it’s all right, ladies. If you’ll simply return to your rooms the earl and I shall see what the matter is. Jane, perhaps you can send for er…tea.”

Naturally his wife ignored him, as did the rest of the ladies. The entire group tromped down the hallway and were encouraged when a shout and a flurry of barking came, pinpointing the area of distress.

It turned out to be Mr. Plimpton’s room.

“Good Lord, is that Mr. Plimpton? When did he return?” Lady Holland murmured.

Freya stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the heads of the other guests as Lord Lovejoy flung open Mr. Plimpton’s door.

“Damnation,” Lord Lovejoy exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this?”

Freya caught a glimpse of Harlowe, standing in the center of the room, looking particularly grim as he pummeled Mr. Plimpton. Tess was to the side, well out of the way of the struggle, but barking frantically at the two men. “Oh no!”

She pushed through the people in front of her and edged by Lord Lovejoy, who was blocking the doorway.

What she saw when the view was clear was not good. Mr. Plimpton hung limp from Harlowe’s left fist, which was wrapped around his neckcloth.

Tess abruptly stopped barking.

“Where the hell are they?” Harlowe roared.

“Th-there,” Plimpton hissed through a swollen mouth.

He was waving his hand in the direction of a rather battered portable desk.

Freya crossed to the flat box and opened it. There were blank paper, pens, a stoppered bottle of ink, and, shoved in a narrow drawer, a bundle of letters.

She turned with the letters clutched in her hand. “I have them, Harlowe. Let him go.”

Harlowe swung toward her and opened his hand, not even looking when Mr. Plimpton slumped to his knees. The blackmailer was bleeding from a cut on his eyebrow and a split lip.

“Whatever is the meaning of this?” Lord Lovejoy demanded.

“Plimpton locked both Miss Stewart and myself in the well house. He confessed to me.” Harlowe spared a glance at the cowering man and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “I believe he had a fit of madness.”

“Well, I suppose then that it’s only what he deserves,” Lady Holland said, looking disapprovingly at Mr. Plimpton.

Harlowe straightened to his full towering height. His mahogany hair was down around his shoulders, he was flushed, and he wore a ferocious scowl on his face.

He was absolutely breathtaking.

Mr. Plimpton glanced up and stupidly opened his mouth.

“Madness,” Harlowe emphasized. “Because of course were he sane I would have to bring a charge of attempted murder against him.”

Mr. Plimpton went pale and snapped shut his mouth.

“I think, under the circumstances,” Lord Lovejoy said coldly, addressing Mr. Plimpton, “that you should gather your things and remove yourself from my house. I shall send several footmen to assist you.” He turned to Harlowe. “Is that agreeable to you, Your Grace?”

Harlowe nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Lord Lovejoy looked at his guests, still crowded at the door to the room. “Now, I believe this matter is settled and we can all retire for the night.”

He held out his arm for Lady Lovejoy, who took it and said, “Well done, my dear.”

Lord Lovejoy turned a rather endearing shade of pink.

The gathering reluctantly left the room, tramping down the hallway.

Freya lingered, still holding the bundle of letters.

Harlowe took Freya’s hand and pulled her after him as he strode from the room, Tess trotting at their heels. “Come with me.”

Christopher’s knuckles hurt and he still felt the disorientating dregs of anger.

But Freya’s fingers were warm and solid in his palm, and for some reason that brought a measure of calm to him. For a moment he thought about what it would be like to have her always beside him, gold-green eyes flashing, telling him the blunt truth, leaning toward him as she argued a point, the scent of honeysuckle in her hair.

Making him smile.

Would this warmth, this calm be with him always if she was beside him? Could she fill the emptiness inside him when the darkness closed in?

He shook his head. She’d made it more than plain that she didn’t want that.

Didn’t want him.

Still. Right here, right now, she followed him.

He turned the corner of the corridor and slammed into his room. Tess, who had been following loyally, went to her place by the fireplace and lay down with a great sigh.

The moment he closed the door, Freya pulled from Christopher’s grasp. She walked to the fireplace and turned, eyeing him. “Was it entirely necessary to beat Mr. Plimpton?”

He sighed, running his hand over his hair. Beating that ass, Plimpton, had been very satisfying, but had it been necessary?

He looked at Freya. “Yes. He refused to give up the letters until I beat him.”

Her brows drew together. “But why are the letters so important to you? I mean”—she held up a hand to forestall his interruption—“I know the letters reveal that Sophy took Mr. Plimpton as a lover, but she’s dead, Christopher.” She shook her head. “Is it worth it to avoid a small scandal? To assuage your male pride?”

He laughed then. “My pride has nothing to do with it, I assure you.”

“Then what?” she demanded, her brows drawn together over stormy eyes. “Did you love her so much?”

He closed his eyes and inhaled. This was what he’d wanted to avoid, but if anyone was owed the truth it was Freya.

He looked at her. “Open the letters.”

“I…” She glanced from the letters in her hands to him, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Are you sure?”

“I am. I think it the only way to adequately explain.”

She nodded and sat on one of the stuffed chairs before the windows and carefully pulled loose the bit of string holding Sophy’s letters together.

She opened the top letter and read as he poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter on his washstand.

He watched her as he took a healthy swallow of the liquor.

Her brows slowly drew together as she read, and her lips parted as if she were about to say something.

But then she went to the next letter.

And the next.

When she finally looked up he’d finished his glass of brandy and was sitting beside her.

“They’re all…” She turned back to the letters in her hands. “How old was Sophy?

He smiled. Wearily. Sadly. “A year older than I.”

“But she…” Freya shook her head. “Her writing is like a child’s. The things she says in this letter are childlike as well. Was she…?”

“Yes,” he said, answering her unspoken question. It was almost a relief to do so aloud. “Sophy was very childlike. I didn’t know her before we married. As I said, I’d only met her twice. We were in company and she hardly spoke. I thought she was shy.” He shook his head, remembering. “She had a sweet smile.”

“But when you found out…”

He watched her, a corner of his mouth curling unhappily at her horrified expression. “I didn’t realize at first. There were signs, but I was caught up in the scandal, worried and afraid of what was happening in my life. I was selfish.”

“How did you find out?” she whispered.

“When we were finally alone on our wedding night she cried and pulled away from me. She refused to sleep in the same bed as I.” His mouth twisted as he remembered his shock. His bewilderment. “My father told me that most gently bred ladies knew nothing of the marriage bed. But that wasn’t the point, of course. Sophy wasn’t merely ignorant—she was simple. When I realized the truth, I knew I couldn’t bed her. It would’ve been fundamentally wrong.”

He got up to pour himself another glass of brandy.

“I’m so sorry, Kester,” she said, setting down the letters and rising to come to him. She laid her palm against his cheek, searching his eyes. “It was terribly unfair for your father to marry you to a woman who had a child’s sensibility. He should not have done it.”

“My father probably told himself that it was only what I deserved. He’d never been particularly affectionate with me, but when I was caught up in the scandal—when I ruined his name—he all but washed his hands of me.” He smiled wretchedly. “The point of the marriage was to put a patch on the scandal and get me out of the way. In that he succeeded. I doubt my father ever considered whether or not the marriage could be a happy one.”

She bit her lip. “How did Mr. Plimpton become involved?”

“That bastard.” Christopher felt his upper lip lift. The hatred he felt for Plimpton was hard to control. “He wormed his way into Sophy’s affections. He gave her flowers and cheap trinkets. By the time he told her that he was in need of money, she thought herself in love with him.”

“Oh no.” Freya’s eyes widened. “He seduced her?”

He grimaced. “I don’t think he actually bedded her—thank God. But he made her think he loved her and that she was in love with him. She gave him all her jewelry and then all her pin money. When I noticed some of my possessions missing—a watch fob, a hand-colored illustrated book of birds, a jeweled snuffbox—I finally asked her. She wept and told me that Plimpton needed the items because he would starve otherwise. I told the servants that he was no longer welcome in the house. Naturally, with his source of money dried up, he left—and broke her heart.” How wretched he’d felt then, with poor Sophy sobbing until she made herself sick. He looked at Freya. “I’d chased away the only thing that delighted her.”

“If you hadn’t he would’ve taken everything you and Sophy had,” she said gravely.

He shook his head. “Plimpton made sure to save the letters Sophy had written him. I think even in India he meant to blackmail me. He waited, though. It wasn’t until after Sophy died, after I became a duke and returned to England, that he made his demands. Money or he’d smear Sophy’s name.” He brushed her cheek with one finger. “You have to understand. I couldn’t let him do that to Sophy’s memory. I wasn’t a good husband, and at the last I failed to save her, but this—this—I could do for her.”

“I don’t think you were a bad husband,” Freya said. “I think you did the best you could with a marriage you never wanted.”

Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.