With agitation she slit open the top of the paper, carefully and precisely so as to do no damage to anything within.
A newspaper clipping confronted her, the folds of print displayed in such a way as to show a headline.
‘Ellesmere strikes gold in fine style’.
The hazy distorted ink spoke of Tay Ellesmere celebrating with a great number of women in some sleazy saloon, the text citing details of a raucous party lasting well into the early hours of the morning, the guests invited unsuitable and rowdy.
As infamous as his soirées at Alderworth? Unchanged. Unabashed. She was in England pining for something that he had not spared a thought for, while he partied with women who were probably inclined to give away any and every favour he would want.
Swallowing, Lucinda let herself slide down the door frame where she sat pooled in red silk, her first finger tracing the exploits of a husband who on each turn of events seemed destined to disappoint her.
Another smaller piece of paper suddenly caught her eye and she lifted it up.
Lucinda
I presume that this is your runaway husband. Perhaps, given the goodly amount of his newly found claim, you should be seeking him out again.
I have sent this letter to Graveson in the hope that your brother might pass it on as I have no notion of your new address.
Yours
Anthony Browne
Screwing up the paper, Lucinda crossed the room to the fire, hurling the letter into the flames. The paper caught at one edge and blackened, embers glowing red before turning to a dull and dusty ash.
Anthony Browne, the brother of a school friend. She had always detested him.
Her glance returned to the newspaper cutting. If she had any sense she would consign this to the fire, too. But she didn’t. She hated the tears that fell down her cheeks and the gulps of grief that she tried to quieten.
He would never stop hurting her, Taylen Ellesmere with his wild and ill-considered chaos. Another episode in a far-off land, his name slandered and his intentions dubious.
This was the man she had married, unstable, volatile and lawless.
Wiping the moisture away as a tear slid unbidden down the newsprint, she cradled the missive in her palm before bringing it to her heart.
‘Where are you?’ she whispered into the night.
Chapter Seven
London—1834
The gold coins were heavy in Tay’s hand as he hoisted them up on to the desk. They clinked against the dark mahogany, solid and weighty, the letters of the Federal Mint at Atlanta imbued in red ink on the fabric of the bag.
‘Here’s the return of your bribe, Carisbrook, with more than interest in full. Now I want my wife back.’
Asher Wellingham stood as the words echoed around his library. ‘You accepted our sum to disappear for ever.’
‘Your expectation, Carisbrook, not mine. My Duchess and I shall leave for my country estate first thing in the morning and you can do nothing to stop us.’
‘Over my dead body, you bastard.’ Without warning the Duke was at Tay’s throat before he had time to react, the chair beside the desk overturned and the strength of his fingers cutting off breath.
But Taylen was a good ten years younger than Lucinda’s oldest brother and had more in muscle. His time in Georgia had also given him plenty of battle practice. With a quick twist he rolled away, fists up and waiting as the other angled in.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, Carisbrook. All I want is what is mine.’
‘My sister isn’t yours.’
‘In God’s eyes and anyone else that counts, Lucinda is my wife.’ He had not meant to get into an argument, but the history between them was murky and here, in this same room he had been pummelled over once before, he found it difficult to temper back wrath.
‘We should have killed you when we had the chance.’
Tay laughed and then moved quickly as a punch almost connected. He couldn’t afford for his dinner dress to be bloodied as his next pressing destination was a ball. Waiting for his chance, he moved in, fingers reaching for the arteries of his adversary’s throat.
It was over in two minutes, the point of pressure allowing an easy end. The fights in Dahlonega in Lumpkin County had been rough and a lucrative stake in gold at Ward’s Creek in the North Georgia mountains always had to be defended. He almost felt sorry for the Duke of Carisbrook laid out on the floor but, when he checked, his breathing was deep and regular and tomorrow he’d barely feel any effects. Save embarrassment, probably, but he’d given Tay a good measure of the same treatment almost three years ago so Tay could not be remorseful.
Straightening his jacket, he caught sight of the clock at the end of the room. Ten-thirty. His wife was spending the evening at the Croxleys’ ball in Culross Street and it wasn’t far. He smiled. Almost too easy.
Letting himself out of the library, he closed the door behind him. Then he took his hat and cloak from the waiting servant and thanked him with a coin before walking into the night.
He was back.
She knew he was from the frantic whispers swirling around the ballroom, his name on the edge of every one of them.
‘The Duke of Alderworth is here, returned from the Americas and twenty times richer than his father ever was.’
Lucinda felt all the eyes upon her as she stood near a pillar in the Croxleys’ ballroom, Posy Tompkins to one side gripping her hand. Three years of dreading this very moment and it had finally arrived. The breath congealed in her throat and her heart beat so fast she was certain she would keel over.
No. She would not faint or fall or run. None of this was her fault, after all, and she would not allow Taylen Ellesmere to make her feel that it was.
‘He is coming this way, Luce.’ Posy barely managed to get the words out. ‘And he is looking straight at us.’
‘Then we shall give him exactly what he does not expect,’ she replied, plastering a practised smile upon her face. Almost simple to do, she thought in surprise, the warmth of greeting a foil to the inquisitive faces turned her way.
‘Your Grace.’ Lucinda tried to make her tone convivial, a meeting of acquaintances, a trifling and inconsequential thing—a figure from the past to whom she had given no consideration since last seeing him.
‘Duchess.’ His voice had deepened in the years between their forced marriage and this unexpected return. ‘I did not think to find you here in town.’
He was still beautiful. His hair was much longer than when she had seen him last and it made him look even more menacing.
Intimidating.
It was the only word she could come up with to describe him as he stood before her, dressed in black from head to foot, save for the white cravat at his neck fastened loosely in the style of a man without much care for fashion.
‘Do you still enjoy the art of untruthfulness?’
The effrontery of such a question almost undid her and she answered with one of her own. ‘Do you still enjoy despoiling innocents on a whim and all in the name of free will?’
A fiery glint in his eyes was seen fleetingly in a face hewn from cold stone.
Urbane and distant. Anger made her fists ball at her side, though she unclenched her fingers as soon as she realised what she was doing. She was pleased Posy had had the sense to retreat so that their conversation remained private.
‘I had heard that you were back in England, your Grace.’
‘Your brothers gave you the news, no doubt,’ he returned, taking her hand in his own and pulling her towards the dance floor. ‘But come, let’s confuse the wagging tongues and stand up together. It will give us some space to talk.’
Short of creating a scene, Lucinda allowed herself to be led into a waltz, his arm encircling her back and drawing her towards him.
‘The gossips have placed you on the Eastern seaboard coast of the Americas for many years, your Grace, taking part in all the temptations the cities there have to offer, no doubt.’
He laughed, a deep rumble of amusement; a man embedded in scandal and savouring it. Her ire rose unbidden. She had seen the evidence of his immorality, after all, in the headlined cutting Anthony Browne had sent her.
‘Your brother Asher said much the same to me when I saw him this evening.’
‘You have been to the Wellingham town house already? Why?’
‘Paying my dues,’ he replied obliquely, ‘and stating my intentions.’ He stopped for a moment as though gathering the gist of what he might next tell her. ‘Not every one of them, though. I saved the best proposal of all for your ears only.’
A streak of cold dread snaked downwards. ‘You want a divorce, no doubt?’
At that he laughed, the sound engulfing her.
‘Not a divorce, my lady wife, but an heir, and as you are the only woman who can legitimately give me one the duty is all yours.’
She almost tripped at his words and he held her closer, waiting until balance was regained. Their eyes locked together, no humour at all in the green depths of Taylen Ellesmere, the sixth Duke of Alderworth.
He was deadly serious.
Shock gave her the courage of reply. ‘Then you have a problem indeed, your Grace, because I am the last woman in the world who would ever willingly grace your bed again. Surely you understand why.’ Disappointment and anger vibrated in her retort as strains of Strauss soared around them, the chandeliers throwing a soft pallor across colourful dresses resplendent in the room. The privilege of the ton so easily on show. Scandal had its own face, too!