A Lady Undone (2 page)

Lord Byron Cartwright, Earl of Wyndham, hated favors. He rarely granted them, but saying no to a duke was not exactly the done thing. He eyed the powerful man sitting across from him at their mutual club, wondering why he had agreed to this meeting. He’d done enough for wayward chits in the past years. But apparently, the fairer sex was in dire need of his assistance.

In fact, given that this was the second time someone had solicited his help in his club, it was damned tempting to give up his membership, which was a damn nuisance. But the idea of gathering dust in his own abode was rather unpleasant. An airing out was essential to his peace of mind these days.

Still, here the duke sat, waiting . . .

“How do you know this duchess again?” he inquired, praying to find some way out of this particularly uninspiring conversation.

Fairleigh’s dark eyes grew guarded. “She’s my wife’s stepmother, the Duchess of Duncliffe.”

Wyndham groaned. Duchesses were so trying. No doubt this woman would be an old harridan, used to getting her way, and expecting everyone to bow and scrape. He’d only briefly met one duchess he’d liked and that was Fairleigh’s young wife.

In general, he’d avoided the
ton
and all its frustrating members.

“Look, old man,” Wyndham began, “Surely a hired guard would be far more appropriate. I don’t like to dirty my hands in this kind of thing anymore.”

Fairleigh arched a black brow. “Too happy sipping cognac and reading the papers?”

“Nothing better,” Wyndham quipped. And he meant it. He spent a lifetime in blood and intrigue and had no desire to continue it. Helping Lady Eva and his old friend Lord Ian had been a one-off, a rare moment of generosity. Even that had been a few years ago. He much preferred to keep to himself. “I’ve gone off blood sports.”

Fairleigh let out a tired breath. “Look, the family is concerned about her. She does important work in the East End and she’s being threatened. Her uncle stormed over to my house this morning.”

“Good God, why?” Wyndham demanded.

“The man seems to think that he’s connected to me what with Duchess Clare being Mary’s stepmother. The two do get on remarkably well, but I can’t stand the uncle. He’s a sanctimonious ass. He expects me to sort out Clare’s protection, and truthfully, I’m glad to do it. She had a hard run and deserves any assistance that can be given.”

That gave Wyndham pause. Fairleigh was not overly given to compliments or kindness, yet here he was speaking up for the lady.

“In any case, the uncle’s at wits’ end, what with the duchess tramping all over London and threats being made. Frankly, I’m concerned for her. And so is my wife. Mary is determined that her stepmother be protected, as well.”

Wyndham scowled. He admired Fairleigh’s duchess. After all, it was impossible not to give her a good deal of credit for the duke’s improved spirits. “Again, a hired rider or guard could do all this.”

“I was aware you didn’t truly wish to be disturbed, but I’m not willing to give Clare’s safety over to some man I don’t know. Moreover, I want whoever is threatening the duchess and her organization brought to light, and soon. A guard will just protect her. You on the other hand will discover who she needs protecting from.”

“And you truly think she’s in danger?”

“I do. Lord Ederly informed me that just this morning a stone was launched through her window bearing a serious warning.”

“Get out or we kill you, et cetera?” Wyndham asked, feeling the unease which was the predecessor to him giving in. It was damn annoying that he couldn’t just send the duke on his way. But there it was. Something in him, something deep and damn old-fashioned, wouldn’t allow him to turn his back on someone in need.

Really, if he could have dug up his father and railed about all those years spent imparting the importance of noblesse oblige, he would have. Alas, the old man was safely ensconced in the family crypt, and Wyndham was stuck with an ancient set of beliefs that he’d never been able to shake off. He let out a beleaguered sigh. “Right, then. If all goes well, I’ll discover the blighter by tea time and it will all be done with.”

Fairleigh rolled his eyes. “Yes, and the boys will be home by Christmas.”

Wyndham blinked innocently. “Won’t they?”

“Just be there at three o’clock this afternoon. She’s expecting a visit.”

Wyndham gaped for a moment. “She’s
expecting
me?”

“You wouldn’t have actually said no, now would you?”

“Still, one hardly likes to be a forgone conclusion.”

“I’m a duke; acquiescence to my wishes is almost always a foregone conclusion.”

“I ought to pop you one.”

Fairleigh smiled. “Next time. You can call me out at dawn.”

“I never rise before noon,” Wyndham lied gleefully.

“Good. Then we’re both safe. Just . . . just be kind to her,” the duke warned. “She’s not had an easy life.”

Wyndham gave him a charming smile. “Of course, Your Grace. I am nothing if not kind.”

“You’re a damned impertinent bastard, but you’re a good man.”

A good man. It was a pleasant compliment. But truthfully, he was a good man who just wanted to be left to live quietly. And the faster he could find out who was threatening the Duchess of Duncliffe, then he would ensure that that was exactly what occurred.

•   •   •

Wyndham gave his hat to the butler and stood in the foyer wondering if he was going to be stuck with tea during this meeting. Really, he’d prefer a brandy but that was not likely given that he was meeting with a lady.

He glanced back at the towering double doors and out to the street and square before the massive town house. His club was only about ten minutes away, and it had become a refuge where he could sit, read novels or the paper, and drink in relative silence.

He hadn’t forced himself out into the doings of the world since Lady Eva’s return to society, and that had been quite enough for him. It was an effort keeping people constantly thinking he was a jovial old soul.

Still, he had no desire for people to know the struggle he engaged in almost daily to not return in his mind to fields of battle and the friends lost in blood.

The butler cleared his throat and Wyndham snapped to. “You have a very nice view.”

“Quite, my lord.” The butler inclined his head then started down the dark hallway, his footsteps muffled by a dark blue runner.

Wyndham followed, his curiosity beginning to rise as it inevitably did. He knew very little about the Duchess of Duncliffe. He’d heard rumblings, but she’d come to London at a time when he was avoiding society entirely. He had, however, heard of the Duke of Duncliffe, his first wife, and their daughter, Mary.

Those unfortunate ladies were one of the most compelling reasons for him to aid the present and widowed duchess. Her husband had been a cruel man. And Wyndham spent some time looking for Mary at the behest of his old friend Lord Blake, before she’d emerged in the presence of the Duke of Fairleigh. It was a ridiculously small world and he wished it was larger. Perhaps if everyone wasn’t quite so connected as the Duchess of Duncliffe, Mary, and Lord Blake’s wife, Lady Eva, he could avoid the vagaries of this world with impunity. But he couldn’t deny a friend, nor Lord Blake, and not the Duchess of Duncliffe now.

Besides, the lady deserved someone to stand in her corner. After all, she’d had the strength to survive her husband. Surely such a thing demanded some compassion despite the fact that she would almost certainly be a woman he normally avoided.

He didn’t care for do-gooders. Most of them were absolute hypocrites.

At last, they entered a large room, its towering windows open to the square allowing cold light to spill across the burgundy Oriental rug.

A woman sat by the fire, tucked into a high-back cushioned chair.

She tilted her head back, her wrinkled lips opened, and a sonorous snore rippled from her nostrils.

Wyndham winced. Good Lord, who would be so asinine as to threaten the poor old thing? Clearly the duchess was half in her grave, which made little sense because . . .

“How do you, my lord?” a lilting, soft voice called from the doorway at the other end of the room.

Wyndham swung his gaze from the old lady to the voice.

“Your Grace,” the butler announced, “the Earl of Wyndham.”

As the Duchess of Duncliffe inclined her head, her soft sandy blond curls swept up, brushing her cheek and neck.

Wyndham opened his mouth, ready for one of his pithy remarks to emerge. Nothing happened.

He stared.

And that was all he did. Proper thought didn’t even seem possible.

The lady standing several strides away from him was nothing that he had imagined.

Firstly, she couldn’t be twenty-five. Her pale face, delicate yet striking, hovered above a severe black gown. Only a jet cameo nestled in lace at her throat relieved the sobering ensemble. And yet, the simplicity of her dress couldn’t dampen her beauty.

Quite the opposite. He had a sinking feeling that the duchess was that thing most women wished they were: a stunner.

“My lord?” she queried, her voice surprisingly low and not at all girlish. “Are you unwell?”

He blinked. “Do forgive me but I thought . . .”

As his words trailed off, his glance slipped to the older woman.

A laugh rippled from her slender throat, deep, and lush, and kind. “I suppose that would be a simple mistake to make, but no.”

She swept into the room, her dark skirts rustling. “That lady is my companion, Mrs. Hartford.”

“Ah. Of course.” That woman was the duchess’s companion? The woman, though not ancient, seemed as alert as a stone.

“One must have one,” the duchess said, a touch of resignation in her voice.

Aha. It was unmistakable. She didn’t care to have someone guarding her, and hence the semi-unconscious choice. The Duchess of Duncliffe wouldn’t be ruled by an overzealous, propriety-barking female.

And if she didn’t care for someone guarding her, she might not care for his presence in her life either.

He gave a slight nod. “It is the hazard of being a lady.”

She paused, her blue eyes shadowing. “It is an inconvenience. There are far worse things that are the hazards of the feminine sex.”

Wyndham pressed his lips together, suddenly alert to the fact that he was treating her as if she were purely ornamental. Clearly, she was not. As Fairleigh had suggested, she was a lady who had not had an easy time of it and he could only imagine what hazards she was recollecting.

“Would you care to sit?” she said, the politeness of her words only slightly clipped.

“I would.” He wouldn’t, actually. This was a moment in which he wished there was someone else he could recommend to deliver his type of aid. The lady standing so coolly across from him did indeed need his assistance, and yet he couldn’t help wishing he was a million leagues hence. Not because she was hideous, but quite the opposite. She was beautiful, intelligent, and wounded.

He knew the look.

She’d survived something terrible in the recent years and now her gaze bore that haunted mark of one who had seen hell and lived to tell the tale.

In short, he not only admired her for surviving; he liked her  . . a far more dangerous thing.

And “like” really did seem an inappropriate word for the way his breath was coming in damnably short intakes, the way his skin seemed to tighten with awareness at her perfect curves filling the silk of her dark gown, and the way he suddenly wondered if her lips would feel soft and yielding under his.

Suddenly, treacherously, he wondered, would it be such a horrible thing to find a bit of pleasure in this business between them?

She held out her small, pale hand toward two Chippendale chairs in the window alcove. A place for them to speak quietly, no doubt, of her situation.

Wordlessly, he strode forward and took the seat facing away from the tall fireplace so that he might have the best view of the room and all those who entered.

As she lowered herself across from him, her skirts spilled out like the petals of a night flower opening to the moon. From her reserved demeanor, she seemed some distant yet benevolent goddess. A lady who had no wish to reveal herself.

Wyndham sat still. Waiting for her to speak. Waiting for her to give voice to her need. He wanted to hear her ask for his help. But more than anything, he simply wanted to hear
her
. Her words, her thoughts, and eventually the story of how her deep blue eyes had lost their innocence.

It was inexplicable. But there it was. He was a man determined to know a woman in every sense and nothing would get in his way. The realization was a shock. He’d always known he would eventually find a wife, a woman to share his days, but he’d never imagined that he might wish to know another person as he suddenly wished to know this one.

It was irrational, but Clare didn’t generally like men. It was unfortunate, it was foolish, it was also inconvenient, but it was also the truth. Perhaps the only man she had ever liked was her father, but he had gone from this world into the next and ever since her experience with the male sex had ranged from exasperating to terrifying.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She did quite like her stepdaughter’s husband, the Duke of Fairleigh. That man had given her hope for the whole male sex. After a good deal of time in his affable company and seeing that all men were not like the husband she had known, she had lessened her dislike of the male species. But she still approached strange men with a degree of suspicion.

Now, she was sitting not quite alone with a strange man. A man who filled up the room with his presence and easy charm. Her usual suspicion had been replaced by an altogether different sort of wariness. She wanted to like him. Immediately. Something that had never occurred before in her dealings with gentlemen.

Surely, it was his appealing manner? Or perhaps . . .

Good God, he
was
handsome. Not handsome the way her deceased husband had been. Oh, no, the duke had been immaculate in his dress, never a crease in sight, his black hair slicked back from his regal face.

The Earl of Wyndham, on the other hand, had dark brown hair that carelessly brushed his broad forehead as if it had never seen an ounce of pomade and his clothes, though clearly expensive, were put together in a sort of thoughtless way. They seemed to strain against his broad shoulders and bull-like strength.

His emerald green cravat was crooked, and the jaunty stick pin sticking out just a little too far reflected the flecks of gold in his whiskey eyes. Lord Wyndham looked more like a country horse trader than an earl.

And just like a country horse trader, he was openly perusing her. There was no direct judgment, just an open sort of gaze. As though, if he looked upon her long enough, he might see to her very core.

No doubt, he thought her some trivial young lady who was bored, filling up her empty hours with a cause. Once, that was all she’d aspired to be. She’d longed for that life of wealth and ease, and the desire to do good because it was what ladies did in their spare afternoons. She’d also longed for love and family. She’d been a fool, a naive ingénue. But that had changed in the short course of her marriage. Her innocence was a thing long lost to her as was her girlish hope for love.

What would he think if he knew the truth about her and what she was actually capable of?

Clare tucked her hidden, crossed ankles behind the chair then tugged the embroidered bell pull, positioned carefully behind her chair. Edward had warned her that the earl wouldn’t want tea.

She cleared her throat. “You’re staring, my lord.”

He rested his strong, wide hands on the cushioned arm rests. “Am I?”

Her gaze lingered on those hands. They were so unlike the duke’s. Bronzed, utilitarian, in fact . . . Those hands in shape and strength reminded her of the
David
’s. She’d seen them once as a girl in Florence. Then, she’d wondered what it would be like to have such massive hands cradle hers. Surely, those hands would keep a girl safe.

She jerked her gaze up and banished such ridiculous thoughts. “You are.”

He smiled, a smile clearly meant to assure, but it didn’t quite reach his tawny eyes. “My apologies. You are quite beautiful and young for a widow. My condolences, by the way.”

The way he gave her his sympathies was so light it was as though he was congratulating her, not offering her his sorrow at her loss. “Did you know the duke?”

He snorted, then his eyes flared as if he’d realized the enormity of his faux pas. “It would seem I am destined to act the ass this afternoon. I didn’t know your husband . . . ,” his voice trailed off, tentative, “but he did have a certain reputation that I was aware of.”

She felt her mouth go dry, and for one brief instant she was in her old room upstairs, the duke was brushing her hair, and then suddenly his fist was coming down. A gasp tore from her throat.

“Are you unwell, Your Grace?” Lord Wyndham asked gently.

She shook her head and forced a smile. “Indeed. I’m merely parched.”

And thank God that at that moment John, a footman, entered with a tray of brandy and glasses.

Wyndham’s brows arched as the young, liveried man placed the tray down on the table between them. “No tea, Your Grace?”

John stood, waiting to see if he indeed would be sent for tea.

“Would you prefer it?” she asked.

Wyndham grinned. “No.”

“Thank you, John, that will be all,” she said, letting the boy go back to the kitchen and no doubt, the polishing of silver. She employed a good many people in the house, more than she probably needed given how little she chose to entertain, but she was determined to be a good duchess. Even if she was a widow, a good duchess made sure to offer employment to those in need.

As far as she could see now, that was the only worthwhile thing about the aristocracy. That and the few that offered patronage to the poor, artists, and forward-thinking politicians. She lifted the heavy crystal decanter and poured out two glasses, finding that she was perhaps a trifle more generous with the measurements than she should have been. “The Duke of Fairleigh suggested I serve you this if I wished to keep you in good humor. Though, I must admit, you don’t seem particularly difficult.”

He sat at ease in his chair, a soft smile playing at his lips as if he was there only to share her company. “I am nothing if not the picture of geniality.”

“Indeed.” She believed him. He seemed to be a man who smiled at the world and the world smiled back, but perhaps it was because the world looked no further than that broad grin or his verbal dancing.

It was a bit scandalous, but she’d decided to join him in his brandy. After all, what was the point of being a duchess, and a duchess without a lord and master, if she couldn’t have a brandy? She offered him his glass, and for a brief moment their fingertips brushed.

She paused at the strange feel of his rough touch, waiting for an unpleasant shiver. But there was none. Instead, she felt a strange sort of . . . well, thrill at the new sensation of his fingers. He worked with his hands. There was no question. But that wasn’t what caused her to pause. To her astonishment, not only did she find his physical contact perfectly acceptable, it had tightened her abdomen beneath her corset, some bizarre part of her wishing the moment to linger on.

Mary, her stepdaughter, had insisted that one day she would meet a man that wouldn’t cause her to shrink from his contact. Of course, Clare had not believed her. She’d never liked any man’s closeness.

But now?

The instant he had a grip on the glass, she pulled her hand back, lest she suddenly grab him and see how much she might touch or be touched . . . and enjoy it. “All this talk of your geniality doesn’t give me much confidence that you will find whoever is making my life difficult in the East End.”

“Ah.” He sighed dramatically. “To business then.”

“It is best, don’t you think?”

He took a sip of the brandy. A look of pure pleasure softened his strong face for a moment as he savored the liquid.

It was the most curious thing.

How could a person seemingly achieve so much enjoyment from something so small?

Cradling the glass, he asked, “Do you feel in danger?”

She paused. It seemed such an odd question. “Would you be here if I was not?”

“At this point, I am here because a duke virtually demanded that I arrive, and said duke also inferred it was your uncle that demanded something be done . . . not you. So, really, I have no idea how you feel about this arrangement, or even if you think it necessary.”

Her breath caught in her chest. She almost couldn’t believe her ears. “You care if I think it’s necessary?”

“I do.”

“I—” She took a swallow of the burning liquid, wishing to cover her shock. As long as she could recall, the most important men in her life hadn’t cared what she thought. Not her uncle, and most definitely not her husband. Any opinion she had held was entirely irrelevant. “I do not necessarily feel afraid, but I am concerned.”

“Because?” he prompted.

When she hesitated, he added, “Please understand, I’ve heard about the threats and the stone, but really the only thing that matters to me is your interpretation of events. I need to hear what you have to say about all this.”

Her usual reticence faded under his determination to engage her as a woman of sense. “Frankly, my concern is for my work, not myself.”

“How so?” he urged.

“Whoever this person or persons are that threaten me, they clearly wish me to cease my work. They’ve threatened to burn my home for women down to the ground if I don’t leave, and I am all that some of these women have. Do you understand? I cannot leave them unprotected. They will have nowhere to go except back to their wretched lives at the mercy of men who treat them as if they had no will or mind or heart . . .” She clamped her mouth shut, astounded by the passion pouring out of her.

Wyndham stared at her, silent, captivated.

She looked away, unable to maintain the intensity of his amber gaze. How had she let herself become so carried away? She prided herself on the coolness she had cultivated since the death of her husband. She would never, ever have anyone call her reason into question again because she spoke with too much feeling.

“You are not worried for your own person then?” he asked carefully.

How could she explain that she’d faced a daily danger in her own home? One misguided blow or a loss of her husband’s temper in the wrong place could have easily seen her dead. Hadn’t his first wife tumbled down the stairs? Hadn’t her own cheek nearly cracked her dressing table on more than one occasion? She was not afraid of a violent end. She’d stood and seen the face of danger and death.

Nor would she run to it, for she had a purpose now. A purpose far superior to any she might have had if she hadn’t married such a man as the Duke of Duncliffe. Just today, that purpose had been renewed when she’d been able to ensure a place with a good family for Amy in Devon. The girl would be able to begin again with support and kindness, money in her pockets, and the knowledge that someone believed in her. She couldn’t fail the Amys of the world.

“While it is in my power, sir, I will not allow one woman who comes to me for help to return to a man who will abuse her, no matter what the church or law might say.” She forced herself to look back to the calm man who appeared as if a canon might fire beside him and not alter a hair upon his unflinching head. “If I must put my life in jeopardy to do this, so be it, but I will not risk the women who need me or the place they come to.”

“Then you do think you may be in danger,” he said simply, “and you do need my help.”

“If you had been a different man, I think I would have said no.”

“A different man, Your Grace? What sort of man did you expect?”

She put her brandy down upon the table and said honestly, “One that would not listen to me, who had all the answers, who gave not a jot for a woman’s wishes.”

He nodded slowly. “I see. Well, I do have many answers, but not all of them. I will always listen to you. I care deeply about a woman’s wishes, they are as valid as my own and . . .”

She held his gaze, suddenly on edge, holding her breath. “And?”

“I am nothing like your deceased husband.”

With those words, she wondered exactly how much he knew. It was galling, seeing the sympathy upon his face. He pitied her. She knew he did. “How do you know . . . what was he like?” she demanded.

“He bullied women, he was a weakling, and he got his power from hurting those he could control. He hurt you. He controlled you. If you allow me to help you, I will do none of those things.”

She lifted her chin, her heart aching with the abrupt pain of memory and shame. She’d never felt such shame before. How could he see so deeply inside her? Did he also see that her husband had beat her, forced laudanum down her throat, and slowly stolen her will away until she’d almost been nothing more than a shadow?

Wyndham didn’t look away. He didn’t smile or reach out. He simply sat, allowing her to take in his words and to reply as she may.

It was so tempting to tell him to get out. She had no desire for anyone to know the kind of pain and humiliation she had suffered. He thought he knew her. Perhaps he almost did. He thought she was a victim. A girl who had been swept up in marriage to an old man who had abused her.

He was right to a point.

A slow smile lifted her lips. “We won’t speak of this again, but you have convinced me that you will help
me
. Not the Duke of Fairleigh, not my uncle, or even your seeming sense of nobility toward a woman in distress. I thank you for it.”

“Your Grace, it is an honor.”

She gave a small bow of her head and hid the dangerous thoughts dancing through her head from his view. Would he still feel so honored if he knew the truth?

What man could?