Duchess by Mistake (27 page)

Finally, something to make Elizabeth smile.

As the duchess's coach rode along Piccadilly toward Berkeley Square she saw her husband's coach.

It was in front of the Pulteney Hotel.

"Haverstock!" Excitement coursed through Philip. "I think I've got something."

Haverstock bounded through the door that connected their offices, rounded his friend's desk, and leaned over Philip's shoulder. "What did you find?"

Philip pointed to a series of underlined words. "If you will notice, every time a word with the letter
i
following an
e
is used, the next word is typically a place name in reverse. Every fourth place name follows a geographical sequence. I believe the names of every fourth town or village is significant. Could it be that's where the couriers are?"

"Let me see." Haverstock studied the document for a moment. "By Jove! I think you
are
on to something. That could explain why we've had the devil of a time following the men. They must be handing off to new couriers along the prescribed route."

"There's something more. You remember the part about Lieutenant Connover's murder?"

Haverstock nodded gravely.

"I believe the bloody Frenchies brought in an Italian beauty to seduce him, steal his dispatches, then murder him whilst he slept."

Haverstock's brows lowered. "But he died in Dover! Are you saying they had a French spy operating on our shores?"

"It looks that way."

"How were you able to make this deduction?"

"Revod."

"Oh yes, I see. Dover backward. Now I understand the reference to the alluring signora in that same paragraph. She
lured
him to his death."

"We shall have to alert all our couriers to beware of Italian beauties." If only Philip had heeded such a warning four years earlier. He would not be so miserable today.

He stood and stretched. His back ached from bending over his desk all day. His head was still throbbing from the excessive drink of the night before. And he was exhausted. "I will dump this in your capable hands. I'm whipped."

His friend eyed him as he somberly nodded.

On the pavement below, Philip summoned a passing hack when he was sure no one he knew was watching. He had the hackney drop him near the Pulteney Hotel's rear door, then he made his way through the hotel's opulent lobby and out the front door, where he climbed into his waiting ducal coach which had been there all afternoon.

Others might believe he'd spent the day with the Contessa, but he refused to even look at her.

When his coach drove alongside Hyde Park, he found himself wondering if Elizabeth was riding there with her cousin. Or worse. Could she be with Captain Smythe? The very thought was like a swift kick to his gut.

Why would she not fall back on her old lover? Her own husband had never shown her that she mattered to him. Then last night, that night Philip had so hungrily wanted to show her how thoroughly he loved her, his actions could not have been more rude.

What was she to think when he abandoned her immediately after dinner? And when he never came home? She would come to believe exactly what Angelina Savatini wanted her to believe.

Elizabeth had every right to flee to the Captain's arms.

The pity was there was nothing he could do to plead his own case. Not while the Italian she-devil had the power to destroy his sister. He had once vowed to Sarah to never reveal her secret. He could not do so even to his wife.

All Philip had left was his word.

* * *

Barrow tapped at her study door, and she bid him to enter. "Mr. Rotten-Smedley to see your grace."

It was all she could do not to burst into laughter over his mispronunciation of Richie's name.  "Is he alone?" If Captain Smythe had come, she was prepared to have Barrow and the footmen toss him out.

"Yes, your grace."

"I will meet him in the drawing room."

A moment later she and Richie greeted one another in the huge, light-filled chamber that was furnished in the formal French style with an abundance of gilt and silk and ornate looking glasses. "Won't you sit?" She turned and took a seat at a settee covered in pale blue silk.

He sat opposite her, the sunshine squarely striking his fair eyes.

"Did you not get my message?" she asked.

"Indeed I did. I would like an explanation. First I was excluded from the dinner. Now this. What's the problem?"

Oh, dear
. "There's no problem. It's just best that I avoid possible scandalous speculations about my relationship with you. I should be riding with my own husband instead of with my cousin."

He started to say something, then clamped shut his lips and eyed her with sadness.

Did he know about the Contessa Savatini? Did all of London know? Did Richie pity Elizabeth? She knew her cousin was too much the gentleman to reveal her husband's infidelities.

For Elizabeth was now certain her husband had resumed his affair with the Contessa. Since that night he'd received the letter from the Italian noblewoman, Philip had avoided the woman to whom he was wed.

"Of course. It was insensitive of me to hoard so much of a bride's time." He stood and gazed down at her with another pitying glance. "I shall miss the opportunity to talk government with Lady Clair."

"She is perfectly capable of driving in the park without me."

His eyes widened. "Would you object if I asked her?"

"Of course not."

"I would think a lady like her would be beating away the callers. Do you think she'd consider driving with me?"

"The only way a man can impress Clair is with intelligence. I would say you can fulfill that requirement most ably."

"But she
is
a duke's daughter."

"And you, my dear cousin, will be prime minister."

* * *

At least that gaudy barouche wasn't there. Rothcomb-Smedley's curricle was parked in front of Aldridge House when Philip arrived home.

"Where's my wife?" he asked Barrow as he strode into the entry hall.

"She's with Mr. Rotten-Smedley in the drawing room." Barrow cleared his throat. “Your grace, I beg a word with you.”

“Of course, Barrow.” He faced him, a congenial expression on his face. Barrow was something like a favored grandfather to him and his siblings.

“I have always considered it the highest honor to be a servant in the household of the Dukes of Aldridge, but I cannot stand by silently while that upstart Mrs. Harrigan allows swine to roam in this fine house.”

Philip’s brows hiked. “We’ve got pigs running around the house? Where?”

“They’re to be delivered tomorrow.”

Philip placed a hand on the old man’s stooped shoulder. “I’ll have a word with Mrs. Harrigan. Don’t you worry. I won’t allow pigs the run of my house.”

He started up the stairs.  Philip was too out of charity with Rothcomb-Smedley and with that damned Captain to even smile over the way Barrow had mispronounced the man’s name—though he most heartily would enjoy calling Elizabeth’s cousin Rotten-Smedley.

As he neared the drawing room, he heard his wife's sweet voice.  "You, my dear cousin, will be prime minister."

His step froze. Her words sickened him. It seemed every man could offer more than Philip could. He strode into the chamber, nodded at her cousin, then solemnly met his wife's gaze. "Hello, my dear." His breath hitched as he beheld her. She looked utterly girlish in her soft muslin dress sprigged with lavender. The sweep of his tender gaze went from her lovely face along the ivory column of her neck, to the rise of her breasts tucked beneath the bodice of the frock. His pulse drummed. His loins ached. He had never before known what it was to long for someone as he longed for Elizabeth.

She offered him a sorrowful smile. "It is a most pleasant surprise to see you home. Will I have the pleasure of dining with you?"

Before he could respond, Rothcomb-Smedley said, "I heard that Friday night's dinner was a resounding success. You must tell me all about it."

Philip sat on the settee next to his wife. "I could not have been more pleased. Such success, though, could not have been achieved without the considerable help I received from Haverstock and. . ." He turned to Elizabeth. "My wife. You were brilliant."

Her brows hiked. "You refer to the menu and the table?"

"It goes without saying that every detail, every single offering was perfection, but what I refer to is your ability to tap into the guests' emotions."

"Emotions?" Rothcomb-Smedley looked puzzled.

"Yes. My wife asked for a show of hands on how many had a loved one fighting the French. Every man and woman at the table responded in the affirmative."

Rothcomb-Smedley smiled at his cousin. "That was brilliant."

Philip addressed her. "Did you not think every lord left our home that night with the intention of supporting a tax increase?"

"That was certainly my impression."

Rothcomb-Smedley eyed Elizabeth with an admiring gaze. "Bravo!"

"The whole mood in the House of Lords has changed. Men are challenging Lord Knolles' absolute authority."

"You've been doing a fine job," Rothcomb-Smedley said to Philip.

At least Philip had one thing of which to be proud. “To change the topic of conversation,” Philip said to his wife, “Can you explain to me why Barrow says we’re to have swine running amuck in our house tomorrow?”

Her eyes widened. “I cannot, but I assure you this is the first I’ve heard of swine at Aldridge House.” Then she began to giggle.

Philip nodded. “One of us should speak to Mrs. Harrigan about it. Barrow’s blaming her for the pigs.” Philip sighed. “We really must get to the bottom of it for poor Barrow is beside himself with grief. Thinks we’re turning our home over to filthy swine.”

“I will, my dearest.”

He settled back, shifting his gaze from Elizabeth to Rothcomb-Smedley "So, have you two been to the park?"

"No. Your wife no longer desires my company."

Thoroughly puzzled, Philip whirled around to face her.

She shrugged but obviously did not want to discuss it in front of her cousin.

He desperately wanted to continue with those intimate talks with his wife. But not at present. What if she asked him about the Contessa? How could he even try to articulate that situation without telling her of that dark secret he'd promised never to reveal?

How long before Angelina understood he would never return to her? He wished to God he'd never left England five years ago, wished to God he'd never succumbed to the Contessa's seductive ways.

"How's the ciphering going?" Rothcomb-Smedley asked. The man knew everything and everybody who had a function in the government.

He turned to Rothcomb-Smedley. "We made considerable progress today. I feel like we're very close. In fact, as soon as I take a nap, I plan to return to Whitehall. I may spend all night trying to decode it."

Rothcomb-Smedley's face was inscrutable as he eyed him. He looked skeptically at Philip, as if he did not believe the Foreign Office was Philip's destination that night. Rothcomb-Smedley was coming to believe what the she-devil wanted everyone to believe: that Philip would be in her arms that night.

Philip stood. "If you'll excuse me, I'm headed to my bedchamber for a few hours to refresh me for the night's tedious work." He bent down, his lips brushing against Elizabeth's silky cheek.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked sweetly.

If only he could tell her what was in his heart.
Hold me in your arms. . . Send Captain Smythe back to Spain. . .Love me as I love you.
But he could not say any of those things. "No." He began to walk away, then turned back. "But thank you."

When he got to the chamber's door, he turned back, grinning this time. "Good day to you, Mr. Rotten-Smedley." Then he left.

"What the devil?" the other man asked.

Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with mirth. "Allow me to explain. . ."

* * *

“Pray, Mrs. Harrigan,” Elizabeth quizzed, “What is this about having pigs being delivered at our house tomorrow?”

The housekeeper’s brows lowered as she shook her head. “The only thing being delivered tomorrow—to my knowledge—is the wine. Several crates.”

It suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that poor old hard-of-hearing Barrow thought
swine
, not
wine
, were being delivered. “Oh, dear me. I daresay poor Barrow misheard you. He understood swine were to be delivered tomorrow.”

Mrs. Harrigan began to giggle. “So that explains why he’s been such a curmudgeon lately! He’s been walking about talking about pigs under his breath! Leave it to me, your grace. I’ll see that he understands and I will try to speak slower and more loudly in the future.”

 In the hopes that when her husband awakened from his nap he would come to her, Elizabeth stayed in her bedchamber. How she wanted to be able to have one of their talks. Even more needily, she thought of how thoroughly she wanted to make love with her husband. Surely when they were entwined in each other's arms he had to feel some of the love that flowed through every cell of her body.

Her expectancy built over the next two hours until she finally heard him speaking with his valet. She waited patiently on her settee. Had she not intimated to him earlier that she had something to discuss? Would he not be here any moment? After all, it had been many days since they'd had one of their intimate talks.

She raced to her dressing table and examined her reflection in the looking glass. As she stood there peering into the mirror, she found no fault with her appearance. Her hair still looked much as it had earlier that day when her maid had so flawlessly styled it. She had changed into a more elegant dinner dress of soft pink and awaited her jewelry.

Satisfied, she returned to the settee. And waited. And waited. Then she heard the door of his bedchamber close, heard heavy footsteps in the corridor. They did not pause at her door but kept on to the stairway.

Had he left without even saying farewell to her? Her heartbeat roared as she went to her chamber door, then to the top of the stairs where she could peer down to the marble hall below.