Never Deceive a Duke (13 page)

At that, Gareth laughed, rose from his chair, and offered his guests a tour of the shops and barns. A former plantation owner, Rothewell leapt at the chance to see the new threshing machine. Kemble declared that manure gave him hives and promptly withdrew.

True to his word, Kemble began his new career as valet with an enthusiasm which was as impressive as it was unnecessary. When Gareth returned to his suite to dress for dinner, it was to find half his wardrobe heaped in tidy piles. A few garments were laid over a chair, and the larger part lay upon the bed. Kemble greeted him at the dressing room door, Gareth’s favorite riding coat draped across his arm.

After eying it suspiciously, Gareth went at once to his side table and poured them both another brandy. “How long can you be away, Kemble?” he asked, passing one of the glasses.

“For as long as it takes, and not an instant more,” said Kemble, who promptly downed the brandy. “I despise the country. And since I haven’t valeted for anyone in almost a decade—”

“You mean you actually
were
a valet?”

Kemble looked at him curiously. “What, you think I make this up as I go along?” he said with a disdainful sniff. “Valeting is a science, Lloyd. One does not pick it up in one’s spare time.”

“I am just shocked to learn that not all of your careers have been shady,” said Gareth, grinning.

“One or two, perhaps.” Kemble picked up a brown riding coat and gave it a good snap. “Actually, your wardrobe is not entirely hopeless, Lloyd—I beg your pardon—
Your Grace
. Funny how I cannot quite come to grips with that new title.”

“Nor can I,” muttered Gareth.

“This riding jacket, for example,” Kemble went on. “The cut is marvelous and the fabric acceptable. The color, however—” He halted, and glanced at Gareth’s hair. “Actually, this
might
work. You have that tall, blond Adonis look, and a good suntan still. Maurice says tobacco always lifts one’s natural—”

“I’m not much of a smoker,” Gareth interjected.

Kemble cut him a withering glance. “Tobacco is a color, Your Grace.”

“Ah, and I thought it merely a vice.”

Kemble tossed the coat into the pile on the bed. “Speaking of vices, I saw your arrogant footman under the servants’ stairwell groping one of the scullery maids.”

“Groping?”
Gareth felt a surge of anger. “By God, she’d best have been willing.”

“Desperately unwilling, I think,” Kemble speculated. “Either that or she was playing hard to get like a Drury Lane professional. I don’t like the look of him.”

“Nor do I.”

“Shall I get rid of him?”

“What, and deny me the pleasure?” Gareth answered. “I won’t have that bastard oppressing someone smaller and weaker than himself. Find out what happened.”

Kemble lifted both brows. “My, you sound serious,” he murmured. “Just give me a few days to earn the trust of the other servants, and I’ll get at the truth of it.”

“Yes, you do that.” Gareth fell back into his chair and forced his temper to calm. “Kemble, tell me again why you agreed to this scheme of Xanthia’s?” he said, changing the subject. “What, precisely, did she say to you?”

“Well, now, let me see!” Kemble laid a finger along his cheek. “Lady Nash’s orders said I was firstly
to improve your wardrobe to one worthy of a duke
. And secondly,
to discover who killed your nasty uncle—”

“—cousin.”

“Whatever.” Kemble tossed his hand. “And thirdly,
to determine if the duchess is truly worthy of your regard.”

“If she’s
what?
—”

“Worthy of your regard.”

“Xanthia has a lot of nerve putting words into my mouth.”

“She did not need to,” said Kemble. “Did you read that letter you wrote, or did you channel it from the netherworld, then simply toss it in the morning’s post?”

“I know what the letter said, damn it,” Gareth grumbled. “And it said nothing about my being infatuated with the duchess.”

Kemble pressed his fingertips to his chest. “
Infatuated
?” he said, his eyes widening dramatically. “My, this does sound fascinating. But regard is a far simpler emotion, Lloyd, and your concern for her was writ plain upon the paper. Let me see—‘a lovely, fragile creature who immediately captures one’s eye and one’s sympathy.’ I believe that’s what you said.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Gareth propped his chin in his hand. “I don’t precisely recall.”

“And, as it happens, I know a good bit about the object of your—er, your
regard
.”

Gareth’s chin came up. “Do you? How?”

Kemble smiled and went back into the dressing room. “In my line of work, Your Grace, it pays to know such things,” he said, addressing a stack of folded shirts.

“See, there’s another question,” said Gareth. “Precisely what the devil
is
your line of work, anyway?”

Kemble poked his head out and flashed an amiable smile. “Why, I am just a simple shopkeeper in the Strand,” he said. “A purveyor of unusual antiquities, paintings, and
objets d’art
.”

Gareth narrowed one eye. “Now, why is it I’ve never quite believed that?”

“I couldn’t say.” With a graceful flick of his wrist, Kemble tossed one of the shirts onto the chair. “Certainly the police never do. They have the oddest notion I’m a fence for stolen artwork.”

“Lovely,” said Gareth. “My first week at Selsdon, and I’ve let in a professional receiver and a chronically inebriated madman. But what the hell, right? You said you knew something of the duchess? Let’s hear it.”

Kemble was sorting stockings now. “Merely the particulars of her background,” he answered. “None of the dirt—
yet
.”

Gareth opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “Go on.”

“Antonia Notting is the second child of the Earl of Swinburne.” Kemble kept rolling and unrolling Gareth’s stockings as he talked. “The family has pots of money. Her father recently married some whey-faced debutante of no significance. Antonia’s elder brother James, Viscount Albridge, is a rake of the worst sort, and a favorite with the bookmakers. He runs with a fast, dangerous crowd, one of whom used to be his sister’s husband, Eric, Lord Lambeth—a minor baron with a major conceit. They married in the middle of her first season. She was just seventeen.”

“Heavens,” said Gareth sardonically. “You are like a Debrett’s and a Covent Garden scandal rag all rolled into one.”

Kemble smiled smugly. “And yet you hang on my every word!” He crammed his hand down one of Gareth’s stockings and held it to the light. “Ah, threadbare in the heel.” He tossed it onto the bed.

It was an especially warm, woolly stocking, but Gareth did not argue. He knew when a battle was not worth fighting. “By the way,” he said reluctantly, “I am going to need some new clothes, am I not?”

“An entire wardrobe, give or take.” Kemble tossed another sock.

“I was wondering,” said Gareth, “if you could possibly get your friend Monsieur Giroux to take me on. Giroux & Chenault are the very best, I know, but Xanthia says they aren’t taking new clients.”

Kemble smiled knowingly. “Maurice will do whatever I ask,” he said. “Perhaps I shall discuss it with him when I get home—if you prove yourself worthy of his extraordinary talents.”

“Prove myself? In what way?” Gareth demanded. “Look, just forget I asked. What of this Lord Lambeth? Just tell me what sort of fellow he was.”

“Breathtaking,” said Kemble. “I actually knew him vaguely. But he’s been dead at least three years now—so your duchess cannot have been married to Warneham for very long.”

No, not long at all. Gareth considered it. Antonia must have wed Warneham almost as soon as her mourning had ended. Not that there was anything wrong with that. “Why did she marry him?” he said abruptly. “Lord Lambeth, I mean?”

Kemble trilled with laughter. “Oh, it was a passionate love-match!” he said. “She loved Lord Lambeth desperately—and he did, too. So they had something in common.”

Gareth laughed. “You are a cruel man, Mr. Kemble.”

“No,” he said with a mystical wave of his hand, “I am Cassandra, Seer of the Truth. Besides, Lambeth left a mistress and two children in Hampstead, and a string of more salacious sex partners over in Soho. Does that sound like love to you?”

Gareth was beginning to wonder if he knew what love was. “I don’t know,” he said. “How did he die?”

Kemble shrugged. “As he lived,” he answered. “Most men do, you know. I heard that he overturned his curricle driving too fast in the rain, but it happened at his country house, so I don’t know the gory details—
yet
.”

“You keep saying that word in a way which gives me shivers,” Gareth said. “I’ve heard enough, I think.”

“Very well,” said Kemble. “Then I shan’t tell you who killed your uncle.”

Gareth’s head jerked up. “
Did
someone kill him? Do you know who?”

Kemble smiled. “Most likely, and not yet,” he answered. “Nasty people usually meet a nasty end.”

Gareth sipped pensively at his brandy. “I want you to find out precisely what happened, Kemble,” he finally said. “Find out the truth—and don’t spare the horses doing it, either.”

Kemble gave a dramatic, swooping bow. “Your wish is my command, Your Grace,” he said. “By the by, I feel a dreadful pair of bruises coming on from Lord Rothewell’s driving. I think that tomorrow I must consult a physician.”

“For
bruises
?” said Gareth.

“Yes, I’m frightfully delicate,” said Kemble. “Now, tell me again—what was that village doctor’s name?”

The day following their arrival, Selsdon’s new houseguests gave every indication of settling in—perhaps until shooting season. Gareth knew that in part Rothewell was simply avoiding his sister’s leaving, though he likely did not realize it on any conscious level. That was just how the baron’s mind worked. He had stayed drunk for two days following the wedding. George Kemble’s motivation was harder to grasp. It was quite likely that Xanthia had simply paid him some exorbitant sum to do her bidding. Gareth should, of course, have been angry at having his life interfered with, but he had other, far greater concerns than Xanthia’s meddling. Besides, Rothewell was right. Kemble might prove useful.

After breakfast, Kemble made himself busy in the study with a pile of correspondence, mostly routine letters of congratulations from people whom Gareth did not know, welcoming him to the lofty ranks of landed aristocracy. He doubted any of them sincerely wished him well. Most were secretly appalled, he suspected. After all, he was naught but a cutthroat, working-class Jew whose kinship to the late duke was so distant and convoluted that he himself could not track it. To the aristocracy, such ill-breeding was an abomination.

Rothewell had not yet risen and would not likely do so before noon. Restless and on edge, Gareth dressed for riding and ordered his horse saddled. Since his first meeting with Antonia, he had dreaded the day when he would eventually have to visit Knollwood, but now he was inexplicably impatient to go. He had sat through dinner again last night, unable to take his eyes from her despite his guests. His curiosity about her—one might even call it a mild obsession—was growing. It made him realize that the sooner one of them was out of the house, the easier it would be for both of them. Besides, he was a little tired of catching sight of her unawares, and feeling his heart ratchet up like some besotted schoolboy’s.

He would look about for a mistress as soon as he could get back to London, Gareth decided as his mount was brought round. He set off toward the village, turning the matter over in his mind. Perhaps he would visit Madame Trudeau again. A highly sought-after dressmaker, Madame Trudeau was polished and delightful, if not in the first blush of youth, and Gareth had spent one or two delightful evenings in her arms. She appreciated him for what he could give her, and asked no questions. Perhaps now that he was no longer pining for Xanthia,
madame
could be persuaded to something more regular? At that thought, he reined his horse to a stop.
Was he no longer pining for Xanthia?

No, he supposed he was not. Nowadays when he thought of her, it was with fondness and exasperation. Perhaps her marriage had drawn that fine, bright line he had needed to see. On the other hand, perhaps the change in his attitude was due to something more dire. That did not bear thinking about.

His horse was prancing impatiently. At the foot of the hill, he turned north, away from the village, and sprang the beast. Eager to please, the horse ate up the ground, throwing up dust and stones as he flew. They reached the foot of the carriage drive in short order. As they made their way up the hill Gareth realized that someone—Watson, most likely—had kept the road up to Knollwood in good shape.

It was a pity one could not say the same for the house. Knollwood was a fanciful three-storied house with two stone turrets which served little purpose, an elegant entryway, and what had once been carefully landscaped gardens. The house had been constructed perhaps a century and a half earlier and appeared to have been on the decline ever since. Gareth tethered his mount behind the house in an especially shady spot, then went back around to the stone steps, now surrounded by brambles and covered in moss. The key Watson had given him worked. Gareth turned the lock, pushed open the door, and was struck by a vague sense of dread.

His last days in this sad old house had been the worst of his life. Even the abuse heaped upon him by the sailors of the
Saint-Nazaire
had not compared to this sort of grief. Gareth forced himself to step inside. He looked about the entrance hall as if it were a foreign land, yet realizing in the same breath that almost nothing had changed. Oh, the smell of damp and decay was worse—but the pale yellow walls were the same, just more mold-specked. Even the old oak settle by the door sat unmoved, covered in years of dust.

Upon peering into the drawing room, he realized that someone had simply tossed Holland covers over the furniture and walked away. He could make out the settee, the side chairs, even the lumpy old chaise. The botanical drawings on the wall still hung, mildewing in their frames. The oil landscape over the marble mantelpiece had faded, and one corner hung loose, torn from its stretchers.