Damnation, her story at least held a certain logical consistency. But it was only that, a story. A story and a letter from a king half mad and on his way to delirium.
He cursed under his breath. She was going to be trouble, maybe for years. Just looking at her he could tell she would never give this up. Why would she?Shehad nothing to lose, and much to gain.
It would have to bethoselands, too. He never thought about that Scottish estate if he could avoid it. Even now, while he paced his horse through town, memories wanted to take over his mind and throw him back in time to wallow again in guilt and remorse.
He escaped that dark cloud by chewing over what he knew and what she did not know but claimed to know. He ruminated over that conversation with Haversham. By the time he reached Mayfair he concluded that the real danger did not come from Miss MacCallum but from the king who would be anxious to protect his name and honor. That caused him to ride to a house other than his own.
The butler took his card even though they knew each other well. “His Grace is not at home, Your Grace.”
“I am calling on the duchess, not Stratton.”
“I will see if Her Grace is at home then.”
He waited in the drawing room. He assumed Clara would decide she was at home, out of curiosity if nothing else.
By anyone’s calculations, Clara was the last woman Stratton would have married. Their families were old enemies, and it turned out Stratton could lay the blame for unforgivable sins at their doorstep. Yet he and Clara had fallen in love, against all odds.
Their union represented the triumph of optimism and pleasure over the obligations of blood and duty. Being a realist Eric had not held much hope for the longevity of their great love, but here they were today, still smitten like new lovers. Which was probably why Stratton allowed his wife a level of independence unusual even for duchesses. Not that Clara would have it any other way.
She indeed was curious enough to receive him, although he had to wait almost half an hour for her to enter the drawing room.
“You caught me unawares, Brentworth, and it is not a day on which I receive. I had to rush to dress for you, and it took forever to get my hair to look right.”
Her chestnut hair had been twisted and curled expertly. “Perhaps you should cut it. I expect short locks are fairly easy to dress.”
“Excuse me?” She gave him a suspicious look, as if he toyed with her.
“Never mind. You could have come down in whatever you wore. I am a friend and we do not have to stand on ceremony.”
Another suspicious look, one that caused her eyes to appear hooded. “How generous of you. As if you would receive me in a banyan.”
He had to smile at that, along with her.
She strolled to a divan and invited him to sit. “I doubt this is the typical social call, so forgive me if I ask what it is you want.”
“I am wounded. Why would you think I want something?”
“Because you have never paid a call on me alone in all the time we have known each other. If my husband is not here, neither are you.”
He wished he had been more careful about that. It had been a stupid negligence.
“Goodness, Brentworth, you almost appear uncomfortable. Your need must be great indeed. Out with it, and I will count in your favor that you asked me directly, instead of having my husband do it for you.”
“I will be frank. I have reason to think you wrote to the king regarding Miss MacCallum.”
“How do you know?”
“Haversham.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Just as well it was handed off to him. He owed my father for interceding in a matter when he was a young man, so he will do right if he can.”
“Right by whom?”
“Why, by Miss MacCallum, of course.”
“So you know about her claim?”
“Not the particulars. I only know she was promised attention to a problem with a legacy and that promise had not been kept. That is disgraceful. Kings can’t lie about such things.”
