His plan to whisk Nellie off to Shewsbury Park, where their honeymoon could begin without these distractions, must be delayed. He separated out a few. “Accept these, Barlow. Decline the rest.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Charles settled his hat on his head, pulled on his gloves, and left the house. He needed to see Nellie. They had not had much of a chance to talk. But first, he must deal with this business. He would hate her to hear about it. He’d prefer it never to reach her ears, in fact, for whatever the outcome, he considered it presented him in a poor light.
When he’d inherited the dukedom, it was his intention never to behave in a manner that was beneath his station. He considered himself honorable and even-tempered, not a thug. The slightly built Ambrose was no match for him in a fight. Charles had easily ducked the man’s wild punch. But Charles’s anger had taken hold of him, and he’d shaken the fellow so hard, he’d fallen to his knees in the street.
He should not have lost his temper, merely reasoned with the man, or failing that, walked away. His days of scrapping were long over. Even though his good friend, Ogelsby, was lying on his deathbed at the time with his family at his side, and should not have had to deal with blatant lies written about him which questioned his character. Charles sighed and hailed a hackney. Although now, with Ogelsby below ground, what followed mattered less, but he intended to bring it to an end today.
Chapter Fifteen
Nellie, having changedinto a morning gown of sprigged muslin trimmed with peach satin ribbon, found her way to Charles’s study. The room was empty. Nellie was caught by its neatness. Papers and files were stacked with precision. Not so much as a pencil out of place, an unmarked blotter on the desk. Nellie thought guiltily of the state of her own desk at her parents’ home, the half-written poem, the inkblots on the blotter, and scattering of pen nibs. She left the room and crossed to the library.
Charles’s secretary, a stocky, sandy-haired man named Samuel Barlow, sat engaged in writing in a ledger. He downed his quill and rose quickly to introduce himself. “I’m afraid the duke has been called away, Your Grace,” he said with an eye on the rose she held. “He expects to return at midday.” He nodded at the flower. “They are lovely, aren’t they? Delivered fresh from Covent Garden.”
“Who sent them, Barlow?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say. There is never a name on the card.”
“Then it has happened before?”
He blinked. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“How often?”
“Every morning this past sennight.”
Nellie’s stomach churned. “Are they always sent upstairs?”
“Yes, Your Grace. The note states they are meant for the ducal suite.” He frowned. “Shall I order a maid to remove them?”
“No need, Barlow. Should more red roses arrive, please continue to send them to me.”
His shoulders sagged. “Certainly, Your Grace.”
Unable to dismiss these bouquets as a casual gesture on someone’s part, Nellie struggled to remain calm. “The duke is attending the House of Lords today?”
“No, Your Grace. Another matter has claimed his attention.”
“Which would that be? He mentioned several matters.”
Barlow tugged at his cravat and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I cannot say, Your Grace.”
Nellie stared at him. “His Grace didn’t tell you?”
“I…I cannot say, Your Grace,” he repeated, his face reddening.
He looked so miserable, Nellie relented. “I shall just have to await his return to assuage my curiosity.” She forced a smile. “Thank you, Barlow.”
He bowed low.
The rose stabbed her fingers as she left the study and returned to her bedchamber. What reason could Charles have not to leave word for her of his whereabouts? She tossed the flower onto the dressing table and, sucking the sore finger, stalked the carpet, turning with a swish of her skirts. Peter trailed behind her, his big eyes on her, but then yawned and returned to his pillow.
There would be a logical explanation. She wanted to think the best of Charles. Shedidthink well of him. But who sent the roses? The Frenchwoman? It could hardly be anyone else.
At luncheon, when Charles failed to return, Nellie dined alone. She barely ate a bite of food, her stomach tied in knots.
Charles arrived home late in the afternoon. He strode into her sitting room where she lay on the sofa, attempting to read a book, and stooped to kiss her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I was called away on business this morning.” He walked over to her desk and moved her pens and tidied her papers. “I thought it best not to wake you.”
