The Wicked Ways of a Duke(43)

There had to be some other explanation for what Lady Standish had just told her, for why he would pretend not to know about her money for so long. Desperate, she tried to think of other reasons for his actions, as doubt and fear warred with love and hope. But what other explanation could there be?

The church clock chimed the hour with gloomy relish. To Prudence it seemed like a death knell, the death of illusions.

“Heavens, is it noon already?” Lady Standish downed the remainder of her Madeira in a gulp. “I must find Standish. He’s still in the tavern, I’m sure, having his pint and visiting with the locals. He loves that sort of thing, which is good, I suppose, for it gives us votes. But Lady Tavistock does hate it so if guests are late arriving. It delays dinner and causes no end of trouble for the staff. Forgive me, Miss Abernathy?”

Prudence forced herself out of her reverie. She tipped up the corners of her mouth in a perfunctory smile. “Of course. It was a pleasure seeing you again.”

“And you. Give my regards to St. Cyres, will you? Come along, Mortimer.” She started through the entrance of the inn, then paused, leaning back in the doorway. She gave Prudence a long, thoughtful glance, then nodded as if satisfied. “Yes, you and St. Cyres are perfect for each other.”

“Yes, perfect,” Prudence agreed brightly, striving to conceal the sickening fear within her. “We’re a match made in heaven.”



Rhys visited the farms that morning. He discussed crops and drainage with his land agent. He met with the few tenant farmers that he had, examined livestock, and decided on repairs. That afternoon he determined the necessities of the household, touring the bakehouse, the brew-house, the laundry, the stables, and the kitchens, making notes about all that needed to be done, how much staff would be required, and how to make St. Cyres Castle into a viable, working estate. More important, he thought about how to make it a home.

Home. With every decision that he made, that word thrummed through his mind in time with the beats of his heart. As he moved through the house and grounds, he thought of Prudence, who would be his wife. He stood in the nursery for over an hour, imagining the children they would have and how different their childhood would be from the hell that had been his.

And at the end of the day, when he was on his way back to the village, he paused on the crag at the top of the hill and turned his horse for one more look at St. Cyres Castle. Its limestone walls glowed like gold in the late afternoon sun, and he knew that within that pile of stones was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d stopped believing in, and everything that mattered.

The village of St. Cyres was quiet at sunset, and his horse was the only one on the High Street, for it was dinnertime. As he rode toward the inn along the empty cobblestone street, Rhys studied the vicarage and the village green and the smithy with the same sense of awareness with which he’d been surveying his own lands.

This village had first become prosperous in Tudor times, for the forests around St. Cyres Castle were a favorite hunting spot of Henry VIII. That prosperity had continued and grown, and St. Cyres thrived well into the reign of George IV. But during the past sixty years or so it had fallen into decay, due to economic conditions and the hopeless mismanagement of the past half-dozen dukes of St. Cyres. Now it was a quiet, run-down little backwater, but as he passed the dilapidated cottages and shabby shops, he saw what it could be.

All of these people are looking to me, waiting and hoping I can save them from these times of agricultural calamity.

His words to Prudence that day in Little Russell Street came back to him, and he smiled ruefully. Such a load of shit, he’d thought at the time. But now, as he looked around him, he appreciated the truth in it. He could make this village and all the other villages that were under his ducal leadership prosperous again. Not the old ways, not with feudal control, not with land rents, but a new way, a modern way. Factories, mills, industry.

There was also everything Prudence’s father had built in America. That legacy had to be cared for as well, properly managed and passed on to the next generation.

A heady thing, so much responsibility, and a bit frightening. Good thing Prudence was so sensible and steadfast. She’d be an excellent duchess. She’d keep him on a straight course. She loved him.

At the Black Swan, he handed his horse over to a groom and went into the inn. A serving maid was waiting by the side door that led to the stables. “If you please, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy, “Miss Abernathy’s waiting for you in the parlor.”

He handed over his hat, his gloves, and his cloak. “She’s not at dinner?”

“No, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Feathergill have already dined, but Miss Abernathy said she wasn’t hungry and she’d wait for you.”

“Did she?” He smiled at the knowledge that she’d waited for him. If they managed it right, talking in the parlor until her aunt and uncle and the other guests at the inn finished eating, they could perhaps dine in private.

Savoring that idea, he walked through the tavern, where a handful of locals were gathered around the tap, sipping their pints of bitter and ale. He crossed the corridor, leaving the tavern, and entering the inn’s small parlor.

Prudence was there, staring into the empty fireplace, her back to him when he came into the room.

“Darling,” he greeted, starting toward her. “Wonderful of you to wait your dinner for me.”

She didn’t turn around, and as he came up behind her, he saw that she was straightening the spill vases on the mantel. Her hands were shaking.

“Are you cold?” he asked in surprise, sliding his arms around her waist. “It feels like a warm, fine spring night to me, but if you’re cold, I’ll warm you.”

He reached for her hands and pulled them down, entwining her fingers with his. “Sorry I’m so late coming back, but I had the most productive day. I think we’ll plant flax next year and build a factory to make the linen from it. Can you imagine how this village will prosper with a linen mill?”

“I had a productive day, too.”

“Did you?” He kissed her temple. “Shopping for the house, I suppose?”

“No. I wasn’t shopping.” She pulled her hands from his, grasped his forearms and pushed them down, gently extracting herself from his embrace.

He frowned, all his senses sharpening in warning as she walked away from him to another part of the room. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“I encountered an acquaintance of yours today,” she said over her shoulder. There was an odd inflection in her voice, one that he couldn’t quite define. He felt a sudden sense of foreboding as she turned, lifted her chin and looked at him. “Lady Standish.”

He sucked in his breath, not at her words, but at her face. There was none of the love he usually saw there. It had vanished, along with her adoration and her tenderness and that absolute conviction that he was her very own hero. Gone, all gone, all the soft, sweet things he’d never had until he met her, things that in two short months he had come to crave like an addict seeking opium. They were gone, and in their place he saw nothing in her countenance but icy composure. He tried to imagine what Cora might have said to make her look at him this way, but he couldn’t, for his wits suddenly felt thick like tar.

“They were on their way to a country house party,” she told him. “Lady Standish and I had a nice little visit while their driver changed horses. She takes full credit for our engagement, since she told you about my inheritance at the opera. The opera, where you pretended not to know anything about it.”

The opera. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

She took a step toward him, and as she looked into his eyes, emotion came into her face, an awareness and a certainty that cut him to the heart. “Oh my God, I knew it,” she whispered, staring at him. “Until now, until this moment, I kept trying not to believe it. I kept trying to convince myself that Lady Standish made a mistake or lied or…something. I’ve tried to find some other explanation, but there is none. When I told you about the money, you already knew. You’ve known all along, almost from the very beginning.”

He opened his mouth to deny it, but the lie stuck in his throat.

“Meeting me at the National Gallery that day wasn’t happenstance. You arranged it. But how?”

He drew a deep breath and admitted the truth. “Fane. He found out where you would be.”

She stared at him. “Mr. Fane wasn’t working for that Italian count at all, was he? He was working for you. Under your orders, he was deceiving Miss Woddell just as you were deceiving me.” Her eyes narrowed. “My God, did you ever, at any point, stop to think of anyone but yourself? Miss Woddell is in love with Mr. Fane, but his feelings are as much a lie as yours. It’s all a tissue of lies.”

“Not all of it, Prudence. You see—”

“And our picnic,” she interrupted. “That was a lie, too. You only pre…pretended to have a romantic attachment to me that day.”

“I wasn’t pretending. I swear to you.” He started toward her, desperate to explain, but she wouldn’t let him.

“And the ball,” she swept on. “Paying your addresses to Lady Alberta was a farce, wasn’t it? A way to play on my feelings for you and heighten my suspense. Then your declaration at Little Russell Street, and all that talk about ducal responsibility and needing to marry an heiress. You knew what I would do. You knew I would tell you about the money.”