Once in the hackney and on their way to the printer’s, Clara spoke her thoughts. “I find all of this provocative, Althea. If Stratton is bent on revenge, one wonders why and against whom. He is no ordinary man, after all. He is a duke. Who could have wronged a duke so badly that he seeks revenge? And to be considered dangerous . . . There is something very curious about all of this.”
“I suppose I could ask a few questions, to see if I can gather more than bits.”
“I will as well. Let us see what we can learn about this man. There may be a story forParnassusin it.”
She neglected to mention that more information might enable her to end Stratton’s inexplicable and discourteous courtship too.
Chapter Four
Dust covered him. It rose from the pages when he turned them and settled on his coats like iron shavings on a magnet.
Adam forged on, reading the old newspapers, more interested in what was not reported than what was. An allusion here, an offhanded reference there, a name mentioned in passing—such were the pieces of evidence he sought, because he already knew there would be no outright discussion of the events he investigated.
He had come to theTimeslast, after turning other pages at the offices of other papers and journals. They all kept examples of their old publications somewhere. It might be in an airy library or a damp cellar, but with time and patience he had read every word published about the Duke of Stratton in the few years up to and through his father’s death.
The death notices were the most useless, although a few in less respectable journals vaguely implied it might have been a suicide. TheTimeswould never tread in that direction on a duke, so its notice extolled his father’s accomplishments and taste. Reading it, one would never guess at the extreme provocations that had made a man take his own life.
Clues regarding the details and sources of those provocations were what he now sought. It had all been a very secretive business, so the bits he uncovered were all between the lines. No publisher would ever openly air those rumors. No man would speak about it except behind closed doors in the lowest voice.
And yet, words had been spoken, and they took to the air like pollen, so while no one made accusations, all had been known by the people in government who mattered.
He closed the tome of bound copies of theTimes.He had hardly found the direct evidence he wanted, but he also found nothing to convince him he was wrong in his beliefs about how the tragedy had played out.
At the highest reaches of the government, questions had been raised about his father’s loyalty. Things had been said to him by ministers and other lords. Someone had been collecting evidence. It went on a while, growing, perhaps a year or so. Isolated and friendless as the hounds closed in, he had taken his life so he might not face the kind of disgrace that stained a family’s name for generations.
The final act and its reason were the only parts not under question, however.
I think Marwood is behind it all. That was what his father had written on the only note he left. Did he have proof of that? If so, he did not leave anything to indicate it. Was it an irrational conclusion, born of his state of mind and the long enmity between the families? Adam did not know. If his father thought Marwood was behind it all, however, then Marwood was at the top of Adam’s list of men to investigate.
He left theTimesbuilding and made his way to his carriage. Deep in thought, he almost did not notice the woman across the street until something familiar about her pulled him out of his reverie.
She walked with a determined stride, as if on an important mission. He noticed the brilliance of her eyes, which implied so much about her. Intelligence. Spirit. Passion. Trouble. He did not mind the last quality. One rarely found the first three in a woman without the fourth. His time with her thus far had been brief, but none of it had been dull.
Although her reddish chestnut hair, visible as a frame to her face beneath the brim of her bonnet, looked stunning against the black of her ensemble, he suddenly wondered what she would look like wearing soft, pale green.
He pictured her thus while he crossed the street and approached her. As soon as she saw him, her expression fell. He wanted to laugh at the way she struggled to maintain a composure fitting for an earl’s daughter. He imagined the impolite thoughts jumping into her mind.
“Lady Clara. What an unexpected delight to see you today.”
“Yes. Delightful.” She angled her head to the left, eyeing the path to freedom. “It is a day of errands for me.”
“For me as well, although I am well done. What errand brings you here?”
She did not reply at once. He had asked an awkward question, it appeared.
“I am not on an errand here. I am simply walking down this street after attending to an errand elsewhere.” She stepped to his side and scrutinized him with a frown. “Were you in an attic? You are covered in dust.” Her hand went out and she brushed at his sleeve, producing a small cloud of dust.
He thought her gesture charming. “My valet will groan when he sees it.”
“Hold still.” Again her hand swept his coat. More clouds rose. She brushed him off like he was a child who had fallen in the dirt. Not that gently, however. Her hand slapped at his shoulders and chest.
“There. You are almost presentable. Now, I must be on my way.”
“Will you be so ungenerous with your company? I have not seen you in almost two weeks. It was my fault, I know. I have not called on you. Due to all those errands, you see.”
“Has it been that long? I had not noticed. In fact, I did not expect you to call at all. There was no reason to.”
“We both know that is not true. However, here we are now. At least allow me to accompany you safely back to your carriage.”
