“You know what I mean,” she chided lightly.
“Yes, yes,” he chuckled. “And a good impression created. As good as we could have hoped for at least. The Hatch’s will be singing the praises of the new Duchess at market and in the village to any who will listen tomorrow. It should combat the gossip from the likes of the Dowager Countess… uhh, which Dowager Countess was she again?”
“Purfleet,” Cecilia whispered.
“They all blend together. Powdery, brittle, sharp women with pinched faces and turned-up noses,” Lionel muttered disparagingly.
“But reaching the ears of more influential people than the Hatch’s, unfortunately,” Cecilia added.
“No matter. The Regent trumps all,” Lionel replied with finality. “The arrangements have been made, we shall make for London tomorrow.”
Cecilia only hoped it would be that simple. What would happen if the Regent had already been turned against Lionel and his new wife? Then they would be pariahs. Not welcome by the ton or the county set. Not welcome, except by the simple folk like Tom and Doris Hatch.
Truthfully, that was enough for Cecilia and, she suspected, possibly for Lionel too. But what about their children? It was not fair that their prospects would be curtailed, their lives less than full because of their parents. And maybe Lionel was not going tobe as blase about it as she hoped. Maybe he would grow tired of being an outcast and she would be to blame.
CHAPTER 27
Lionel picked up the letter from Menzies Lennox, reading its meager lines once more. Lennox might have a tendency to draw out a story when talking in person, but on paper, he wasted no ink. The words were to the point and so economical that Lionel had already memorized each one of them. He didn’t need to look at the paper again. Didn’t need to read it a second time or a third time. Or a tenth time for that matter. That was not why he had picked up the letter again from the burnished mahogany surface of his desk. No.
What troubled him was what Lennox wanted him to do. What hehimselfwanted to do. And how Cecilia might react to that.
He stood, limping to the brandy decanter that rested on a sideboard on the other side of the room. He plucked out the crystal stopper, but then a moment later, roughly shoved it back, turning away from the drink with a silent curse.
Cecilia did not like his quest for revenge. Feared for him, in fact. He knew that it had consumed him, been his obsession for fartoo long. Until he had met Cecilia, there had been five years of isolation, ended by a supreme effort of will.
As the day had approached for the ball at which he had met Cecilia for the second time, he had wanted nothing more than to cancel it. To close the doors of Thornhill and allow no one admittance. To become a hermit and damn what anyone thought of that. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in plans to ruin Lord Thorpe, the architect of his woes. But, he had recognized the need to return to society, to take his place among his peers. Not for his sake but for the name and the title.
He stopped before the fireplace, staring up at the Grisham coat of arms worked into the stone above the mantle. That sigil was why he had decided to introduce himself back into the ton. It was greater than he, greater than any single Grisham who had gone before or would come after. Duty went with it.Obligation.
“To hell with it, old man!” Arthur’s voice boomed in his head. “Go to London like the Scotsman wants and see this evidence he’s uncovered for yourself. Crush Thorpe. Destroy him.”
Lionel smiled grimly, staring into the flames now, imagining that the blackened logs burning in the grate were the remains of Gordon Locke, Lord Thorpe. The man he now knew shared his father. A half-brother. It changed nothing.
“I can’t let down Cece. We are going to London to introduce her to court,” Lionel whispered.
“Do both,” Arthur whispered back. “Introduce her to the Regent and meet with Lennox.”
He could do both, Lionel realized. He could tell Cecilia that he had business to take care of and slip away for a few hours. How many gentlemen did the same when in town? A visit to his club, where he had not been since he had inherited the Dukedom and who prohibited women within their august halls. A visit to Westminster where the Dukedom entitled him to a seat in the Lords. Women were not prohibited in Parliament, simply discouraged. But all would involve lying to Cecilia. Some men would think nothing of lying to their wives or even respect them so little that they did not bother lying, simply didn’t tell them what they were about.
He could do neither.
“I will not lie to her,” Lionel muttered with determination.
He glared at the innocuous paper lying on his desk. That missive was the cause of his perturbation. He wished that Lennox was less efficient, less effective an investigator. Another few months in which Cecilia could cement her position within the ton was all he needed. He turned away, striding across the room and heaving open the study door.
He resolved to ignore the letter. Cecilia was his priority. Protecting her and making her happy. It was important to her that they be accepted by society as Duke and Duchess, and so it became his mission too. But the knowledge that there was something urgent requiring his attention in London would notgo away. Itprickedandgnawedat him. Lennox would not urge haste unless he thought it necessary. This might be something that would not be there by the time Lionel and Cecilia reached London in a week’s time. The evidence gone, the opportunity missed. Thorpe safe.
Lionel stopped in mid-stride, slapping a hand against the stone sill of a window in angry frustration. Through the window, he could see an aspect of the south gardens. Cecilia was kneeling beside a flower bed, working the soil with a small trowel. A collection of plants was gathered in a basket by her side. He found himself smiling. What Duchess would deign to kneel in dirt and plant flowers rather than directing their gardener to do it? The man Lionel employed for that job was walking across the lawn to Cecilia, holding a plant with bare, soily roots in both hands. Cecilia stood and the two of them talked, Cecilia pointing to a spot in the flower bed and the gardener nodding.
Lionel shook his head. She was a remarkable woman. An extraordinary woman. He felt that he had been waiting for her for his entire life. Before Arthur’s murder there had been other women, Arabella Wycliff chief amongst them.
But with all of those women, Lionel had felt more that he wassupposedto be in love, rather than actually being in love. It was as though he were play-acting, going through the motions of courting because that was expected of him.
With Cecilia it was different.
He leaned on the windowsill and watched as she continued to work. With her, there was no play-acting. No pretense. She had captivated him from the first moment they had met. And the second had seemed like divine intervention. It had been a second chance. Such a shame that their love had started as a face-saving exercise to avoid scandal. Such a shame that he had been so foolish as to try and pretend he did not love her, did not want her, and could easily live without her. Utter foolishness.
Watching his wife, Lionel knew that he could not lie to her. Would not try and keep anything from her. He would ignore the letter and let the revenge plan go. At least for now. The idea of giving up entirely made his stomach clench. The idea of Arthur never receiving justice was unconscionable and he couldn’t understand why Cecilia was not as consumed by it as he was.
