I do believe I have the ideal solution for your particular problem, one of the letters had read.I will speak to my man and develop an arrangement which Your Grace shall hopefully find amenable.
And then, still, another,You have my promise and solemn vow that, once removed, the problem shall not further offer you trouble. The proper amount of coin can provide a man with anything he wishes.
George had written those words to the fiendish Duke of Longleigh. There was no question in Pippa’s heart or mind. And furthermore, to her great horror, theproblemhe had written to Longleigh about, the one he had been paid to remove, had been Mr. Adrian Hastings. A man. A kind and gentle man, one who loved her dear friend Tilly, the now-widowed Duchess of Longleigh. A man who had been sent to prison for false charges. Who had suffered in Dunsworth, a place where he had been robbed of name and forbidden from speaking. Where he had been treated worse than an animal.
All because of George and the Duke of Longleigh.
She recalled when Mr. Hastings had disappeared. Her friend Tilly had been utterly devastated by the loss. She had come to Pippa in desperation and tears, right to this very house. George had been present. He had come to the drawing room, drawn from his study by Tilly’s sobs.
Or so Pippa had believed.
How compassionate he had been that day. How sympathetic to Tilly’s plight. Her lover had been gone, and she was once more under the dominion of her cruel husband the duke.
George’s words that day returned as well.
If there is any way I may be of service to you, Your Grace, please do let me know.
How solicitous he had been, how concerned. And how proud Pippa had been to have chosen a husband who was compassionate and caring, not just when it came to her, his wife, but to her friends as well.
A bitter laugh tore from her.
The brandy was gone.
She had drunk the entire glass, it would seem. Mayhap another splash was in order. She was not certain she could face the potential for treachery that awaited her without further fortification. With a trembling hand, she poured more brandy. The stuff tasted dreadful, actually, but she did not care about that just now. All shedidcare about was oblivion. A means of ameliorating the sting of betrayal.
Of quelling the ache that had come from realizing she had been deceived.
Perhaps for the entirety of the time she had known George.
Had she everknownhim? Truly?
Her fingers traced over the inlaid flowers on one of the drawers. After George had died, she should have come here. She ought to have forced herself to sit in this chair and go through his papers at some point during the last year. She would have had a better understanding of him, some knowledge of what he had done.Heavens!Perhaps she could have even aided her friend Tilly in her quest to find what had become of Adrian Hastings.
And yet, she had only found it necessary to do so now, buoyed by spirits and at the urging of a man she did not trust.
She had not always distrusted Northwich, however. Once, she had been cleverly encircled in the trap of her heart’s making. She had believed herself in love with Northwich. But she must not think of that time.
Not now. Not ever. It held no bearing on the present, and it would not do to wallow in the pain of the past. She had some answers to seek. Answers she deserved. Answers her friend Tilly and her husband Mr. Hastings deserved. Answers Charlotte deserved as well. One day, she would want to know what manner of man her father had been. Pippa had always imagined her answer could be issued with honesty and pride. Hardly so now, it would seem.
Another sip of the brandy.
The study had turned liquid around her, nothing but swooning grays and blues as the wallcoverings and the oil paintings lining them swirled into muted tones. The entirety of her attention was affixed upon the drawer, and the false bottom within, the hidden compartment George had shown her. It was a place she would never have looked, and he had known it. Her trust in him had been implicit.
Misplaced.
She settled the glass upon the desk’s top and opened the drawer at last, fingers trembling. Blank paper within, a spare button, a handkerchief. She held it to her nose, searching for the scent of George’s shaving soap, but the linen square only smelled of oiled wood. She placed it on the polished surface of the desk beside the other objects, then extracted some more. Ten pound notes. A pen.
One by one, she removed the items keeping her from the place he had possessed the bravado to show her. Would he have been foolish enough to hide the evidence of his crimes within the secret place he had shown her? The husband she had known would never have required a hidden compartment unless he needed a place to store a gift for her, out of sight.
If only she would find earbobs nestled within. One parting bauble from him. A love note. Even emptiness would be better than further proof the man she had married had not been whom she had believed. That he had been a liar. A manipulator. A criminal.
Worse.
The last item came out of the drawer. The false bottom in the drawer came up, and beneath it lay three bundles of correspondence, neatly stacked and bound with string. Heart heavy in her chest, she extracted them, settling upon the thickest pile first. She pulled the string, opened the first letter, and began reading.
Her leaden heart turned to glass.
And shattered.
