And, if the scandal sheets were to be believed, his prowess extended into his personal affairs.
Blessed with “godly” looks and wealth, he was said to cause a female frenzy wherever he went. Even if women succeeded in attracting his notice, they didn’t hold it for long: his affairs were short-lived and too numerous to count. One of the more lurid scandal rags even claimed to have interviewed his past lovers; according to these “anonymous sources,” his stamina and male equipment were the true reasons he was called The Iron Duke.
There was a final connotation to his moniker. The term “duke” was evidently used to refer to the men who ruled London’s underclass, and Murray, despite his aristocratic roots, had cut his teeth with this cunning, ruthless group. Before he’d become a railway industrialist, he’d made his fortune working for a moneylender; how the younger son of a viscount had ended up in that world remained a mystery.
Bea could sum up what she knew of Murray in three words: charming, arrogant, and shady. As she contemplated the new missive, however, she didn’t think he had written it.
“This letter seems different from Murray’s other ones,” she said. “He typically uses expensive stationary with his company crest, not this thin stuff. His penmanship is bolder than this hand, and he’s always signed his name whereas this note is anonymous. Not to mention, the tone is decidedly less polite.”
“What does it say?”
She pushed the letter toward her friend. “Why don’t you give it a go?”
Despite Fancy’s many talents, there were a few skills she hadn’t mastered. Reading and writing weren’t considered important to the tinkering life, especially for the womenfolk. Lately, however, she’d expressed an interest in learning her letters, and Bea had taken it upon herself to teach her friend. She thought it a fair exchange for Fancy, being a proud sort, refused to take any more than a seamstress’s wages for the clothing she sewed for Bea, no matter how hard Bea tried to give her more.
Fancy bent over the letter, her index finger following the words as she read them aloud. “Con… con…”
“Try sounding it out, dear,” Bea encouraged.
“Con-si-der…you—noyourself…warn…warned. Leave your es…estate. Or you will re…regret it.”
“Well done.”
Fancy raised wide eyes. “Sweet Mary, Mother o’ God.You will regret it?What does that mean?”
“One cannot be certain, but it does sound rather like a threat, doesn’t it?” Bea said baldly.
“If Murray didn’t send this, then who did?”
Unfortunately, the industrialist was but one of Bea’s problems. For years after her accident, she’d wondered what it was about her that drew bullies and gossips. Now, she no longer cared. She answered to herself and her conscience and didn’t give a damn what others thought or said about her.
“You know how popular I am,” she said sardonically. “How some feel about me…and my tenants.”
Having been a social outcast herself, Bea did not turn away others in a similar predicament. It had begun innocently enough, when she’d given shelter to Sarah Johnson—now Mrs. George Haller—a former prostitute who couldn’t find any place that would accept her and her bastard babe. Word had spread that Bea would take in anyone who worked hard and wanted to better themselves, and people who’d been shunned by society flocked to her estate.
Since Bea had land that needed farming and these good folk needed work, she thought it was a match made in Heaven. Others disagreed…or they had different bones to pick with her. Her most vociferous detractors were Squire Crombie, who owned the neighboring estate, and Reverend Wright, the rector of the nearby village. Thomas McGillivray, who headed a coalition of pottery manufactory owners in the northern part of the county, was also a foe. Then there was Randall Perkins, a troublemaking former tenant whom Bea had ejected from her property one month prior.
All the men had their reasons for wanting Bea gone. Would any of them stoop to sending a threatening note?
Fancy gnawed on her lower lip. “We need to do something ’bout this.”
“Yes, but what?” Bea drummed her fingers against the table. “Ordinarily, one could enlist the help of the magistrate but…”
“Squire Crombieisthe magistrate.”
“Precisely. And you know what kind of assistance he’d like to provide me.”
Fancy snorted. “A boot to the backside, perhaps?”
“He’s never forgiven me for outbidding him on Camden Manor,” Bea acknowledged with a wry grin. “It is possible, however, that I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. The note could be harmless. Someone’s idea of a practical joke.”
“It don’t sound like no laughing matter to me.” Fancy hesitated. “’Ave you thought about contacting your brother? ’E’s a duke, ain’t ’e? Surely ’e could do something.”
Bea’s throat constricted as she thought of the last time she’d seen Benedict, now the Duke of Hadleigh. Over five years ago, standing at their parents’ graves. They’d fought, both saying things that couldn’t be taken back. And the wounds they’d inflicted hadn’t just been done with words. Benedict’s obsession with revenge had caused untold suffering...
She didn’t know how to heal the breach with him. Didn’t know if she wanted to. Too much had happened: she and her brother were not the same people they once were.
Benedict continued to send her letters now and again. Since they all had the same message, she didn’t bother replying. He couldn’t convince her that she was still Lady Beatrice Wodehouse…any more than she could change the path he’d chosen.
