Jilting the Duke (2 page)

Chapter Two

Perkins dug in his shovel, loosening the dirt of the garden beds. “M'lady, which plants were ye wanting as a border for this bed? There's plenty of boxwood.”

Sophia looked from her plans to the plants from her country estate. “I want box as a border for the outer beds, but for these inner beds, I want a different texture. Lavender, perhaps?”

Perkins wiped his brow with the back of his hat, leaving a smudge of dirt on one temple. “We've enough for this bed, and there's more at the manor house.” At the wagon, he chose similarly sized lavenders to form an even border.

Turning her attention back to her plans, Sophia saw the torn skin at her knuckles. She bent her fingers, the dull ache a reminder of her recklessness. There would be no consequences, she promised herself for the twentieth time. Aidan had not followed. He had not known her.

For more than a year, she'd been plagued by a sense of foreboding. She had left London a bride not yet twenty and returned a widow not yet thirty. Buffeted by the salt wind as the ship approached the white cliffs of Dover, she'd knelt beside her watchful young son, drawing his shoulders into her side and whispering comfortingly, “This is England, Ian. This is home.” But she knew it wasn't true. After the deaths of her parents, she'd never had a true home in England, only the unstable generosity of her father's relatives. And the loss of Tom's protective presence left her feeling hollow along her spine.

But if England were not her home, she could make it a home for Ian, and home for both of them meant a garden. Each night after she kissed her dark-haired boy good night, she sat at her easel, drawing and redrawing the garden beds, then watercoloring each one to see how the plants would complement one another. Her estate manager, Seth Somerville, had sent so many plants from the estate that she wondered if he had been pleased to see her setting aside her mourning.

Perkins, a laughing Cotswold plantsman with a gift for “growin things,” returned from the wagon and began setting the lavender in the bed.

Sophia watched him work. She loved the planting. Seeing the flat paper of her watercolor designs transform into the depth and height of the plants gave her a sense of purpose. For too long she had felt like a tree struck by lightning, not dead, but never putting out new growth. She was afraid of disturbing that precarious stability, but perhaps—despite her encounter with Aidan in the park—she would find a way to take root and thrive here.

“What goes inside the lavender, m'lady?” Perkins interrupted her reverie, his wheelbarrow empty. He stood, tucking the spade into the side of his belt.

“My son asked for forget-me-nots, petunias, and marigolds . . . all in a jumble together.” She tucked a lock of walnut-brown hair back under the confines of her bonnet. “They were my husband's favorites, and tomorrow is the anniversary of his death. I'd like to have this bed ready as a remembrance.”

“Happy plants, those are. I will have the bed planted this afternoon.” Perkins pushed his wheelbarrow back to the wagon.

As she watched Perkins move the marigolds, already blooming, into the wheelbarrow, Sophia recalled a long-forgotten memory. Ian, holding out marigolds in both hands, toddled toward her, with Tom, ever watchful, walking closely behind. Tom's eyes had met hers, and they had both smiled. Struck by the sweetness and the sorrow of the memory, she felt her throat tighten.

Perkins returned from the wagon, then looked past her toward the house. “Mr. Dodsley needs your attention, my lady.”

Sophia turned to find her butler, all smooth propriety, approaching with a small silver tray. “M'lady, a note from Mr. Aldine. His messenger is waiting for your reply.”

She recognized the plain, concise hand of her solicitor as she took the note, a single sheet folded to make its own envelope.

“Also,” Dodsley continued, “Mr. Murray has sent another packet. I took the liberty of placing it on your desk in the library.”

“Thank you, Dodsley. I'll write my reply in my dressing room and ring when I am finished.” Sophia took her leave from Perkins, who was setting Ian's garden into an orderly chaos. As she walked back to the house, she broke the seal and unfolded the note.

In the warm sunlight of the garden, Sophia felt the chill of foreboding return.

* * *

Sophia stood in front of her wardrobe, trying to choose a dress for her afternoon meeting with her solicitor. She had already removed her garden frock and apron, and washed her arms, chest, hands, and face in the basin. Now she stood in her chemise, staring at her choices. It should be easy: one black mourning dress looks much like another. What, she wondered, did one wear to accompany a sense of impending disaster?

In a way, the problem of the dresses was rather funny. There were only three, and, by now, the ever-observant Aldine had probably catalogued her entire afternoon wardrobe in one of his precisely ruled notebooks. The only thing he had never seen her in was her chemise. There, that's a decision: wear your undergarments downstairs and see if Aldine blinks or just takes out his notebook and makes another entry.

With a sigh, she chose the unassuming black silk that buttoned from the bodice to the floor. The practical choice, she thought. It required no help from her maid, allowing Sally to remain in the nursery with Ian. As Sophia pulled the dress on, she felt the wear on its covered buttons. It was no longer a dress even a widow in mourning would wear, but the thought of venturing out, of buying new clothes, overwhelmed her.

To calm her nerves, she stood at the open doors of her balcony. Below her, the pale green grass darkened into deep shadows below the oaks, yews, and alders, and past her yard, several houses over, a statue of Flora, goddess of flowers, stood on top of a conservatory of iron and glass. Hers had become a circumscribed life, and one Tom would not praise. The house, the garden, the park with Ian, the vista from her window, they had become the whole of her world. It was a stark contrast to their life in Italy, filled with laughter and sparkling conversation. But Tom's death had stolen her ability to talk brightly about nothings with near strangers. She had no idea how to broaden her circles, or even if she wished to. Just as with the dress, she was caught in limbo. She didn't know how to change, or even if she could.

She touched the small key worn on a ribbon around her neck, a reminder of her unfulfilled promises to Tom that weighed increasingly heavy on her heart. Breathing in slowly, she turned and left her room.

As she walked down the back staircase to the library, she tried to imagine the reason for Aldine's visit. The newspapers were filled with parliamentary debates on the stability of the Bank of England and its monetary policies, alongside stories of how vast family fortunes had been lost in a single day to volatile investments.

What if their money were gone?

The idea knocked the breath from her chest. She pressed her hand against the cool plaster wall. Would she lose the house and the estate? The London house was her refuge, Tom's gift, allowing her to live in town rather than on his country estate, with her uncle and his prim wife for neighbors. But if it were a choice, she'd keep the estate. It was Ian's future.

But both? What if there were
nothing
left? To be reliant on the narrow kindness of relatives was something she'd sworn she would never do again. But for Ian, she would reconcile with the Devil . . . or her brother Phineas. She preferred the Devil.

The image of Aidan standing in moonlight rose before her. She shook it off. She would do what she had to do. She always had.

If the problem weren't their finances, then had someone learned their secret? But why take the information to Aldine, and not to her? To know, they would have to have the papers....

She had to know. She entered the library and pulled the key from beneath her chemise. Kneeling behind the partner desk she had shared with Tom, she pressed a latch hidden in the elaborately carved paneling. A panel moved to the side, revealing the door to a hidden compartment. She unlocked the door, holding her breath. The papers—and the hair she had placed over them—appeared untouched.

Suddenly tired to her bones, Sophia spoke to Tom's portrait, hanging above the fireplace, “You promised me all would be well. But after last night . . . after seeing him . . . I don't know how it can be.”

When her solicitor arrived, he handed her a letter in Tom's hand, and she found that she had been completely wrong about how bad the possibilities could be. The truth was much, much worse.

* * *

Aidan stepped from his bath and rubbed a towel over his chest and upper arms.

“You'd enjoy rake's hours more if you spent them on the town, your grace.” Barlow smiled at Aidan's scowl. “I'm sure Cook would be delighted to concoct another sleeping posset. She says she knows what went wrong last time. Her newest recipe, she promises, will have you sleeping like a condemned man.”

“If I risk Cook's remedies, I will
be
a condemned man. I prefer to lie awake until morning, then sleep until noon. I find it less damaging to my bowels than Cook's remedies.”

“I think, your grace, you have simply lost your nerve.” Barlow chuckled.

Aidan threw the towel at the back of Barlow's head. But his old sergeant turned and caught it. “You won't be catching me out,” Barlow said. “I've been wise to your ways since you convinced me that the adjutant general's daughter fancied me.”

“I thought your midnight serenade at her window quite affecting.” Aidan laughed. “I only wish the musicians had shown more talent.”

“As I remember, your grace, you hired the musicians. Promised me they were the best in town.” Barlow folded the towel in two brisk motions.

“But I didn't say
which
town. The madam of the brothel assured me she hired only the highest caliber of musician.” Aidan smiled. “But I think you more than repaid me with the frog in my pack.”

“I still feel for that frog. I never expected you to carry him croaking for five miles,” Barlow said as he selected clothes from the wardrobe.

“It would hardly have been fair to leave him to find his own way to a good pond.” Aidan watched Barlow's choices. “Am I entertaining visitors?”

“A Mr. H. W. Aldine.” Stout and sturdy, Barlow had the face and the manner of a man other men trusted. Given fifteen minutes, Barlow could take any recruit's full measure, knowing his hopes, dreams, fears, and most important, whether he cheated at cards. When Aidan left the regiment, he had taken Barlow with him, and on their missions, Barlow's instincts had more than once saved their lives.

“How does he look?”

“Like a solicitor.”

“Not another creditor trying to recover my brother Aaron's debts?” Aidan asked as he pulled on his trousers, shrugged into the suspenders, and buttoned the fall front on each side.

“No, your grace. Too careful with words. And he carries a portfolio of papers.... I placed his card on your desk.” Barlow helped Aidan into his shirt.

“So if he
is
a creditor, he has the good sense to pretend to be something else.” Aidan allowed Barlow to tie his cravat. “Well, show the
solicitor
into my study. I'll be down presently.”

* * *

Aidan walked into his study five minutes later, having run a comb through his wet, unruly hair. His dress was casual enough to signal a lack of concern, even contempt for the business at hand. Creditors were like wolves. Any sign of weakness translated into deep losses for the ducal estate. Five minutes of polite attention could lead to months of negotiation. No, Aidan had learned quickly after his eldest brother's and then his father's deaths: a dismissive nonchalance produced the best resolutions.

A stolid man, Aldine stood behind one of the more comfortable chairs, his worn leather portfolio open in the seat before him. Aidan sized up the solicitor as he had a row of army recruits or his contacts in the more perilous world of intelligence gathering. Barlow was right: this man was no creditor. Inked at the fingers, but meticulous in his clothing, Aldine held himself with a grace that belied his sturdy frame. A man to have beside you in a fight, Aidan realized. He reconsidered Aldine's fingers: a man who wished to be underestimated. How, he wondered, would Aldine respond to a frog in his portfolio?

“Well, Mr. Aldine, what business is so urgent that you must come without warning?” Aidan used the brisk tone he found most effective at limiting unwanted interactions.

The solicitor looked from Aidan to his study. Aidan watched with interested satisfaction, knowing the room revealed little. The furniture was well-appointed, the objets d'art fine, but not extravagant. The pieces revealed no particular preference as to period or style: an ancient Grecian urn on a carved mahogany pedestal stood before a contemporary painting by a little-known artist. Aidan wondered whether Aldine saw a rake, unkempt from a night of carousing, or the former officer known for his ruthless detachment. The men's eyes met, both having taken the other's measure.

The solicitor folded his hands behind his back. “I come on behalf of Thomas Gardiner, the late Lord Wilmot. I'm to deliver a letter his lordship wrote you shortly before his death. If you agree to the proposition he outlines, I have brought papers for your signature.”

At Tom's name, Aidan stiffened with complicated emotions: fondness, regret, anger, betrayal. “Wilmot has been dead a year, yet the delivery of these papers is urgent?”