Royal Regard (45 page)

Nick had been allowing Firthley to manage
everything outside Bella’s sickroom, and faced with whatever he
might hear in the next quarter-hour, there seemed more reason than
ever to leave it all in the marquess’s capable hands. With crystal
tumblers in each man’s hand, and a goodly swallow down each throat,
both were more prepared for the conversation to come. Nick could
hardly be more dazed, but with enough drink, he thought he might
try.

Once they were served, Firthley dismissed the
butler and requested he ensure perfect privacy around the study,
including barring entry to the marchioness. Everyone knew he might
lose his position for complying, or at least his place in his
Mistress’ good books, but Corbel agreed, “Very good, Sir.” The
butler bowed and left the room, closing the doors silently behind
him.

As soon as they were alone, Nick asked, his
face motionless, “Have you found Michelle?”

“No, not yet, but we have further
information.” Presumably intending to avoid the details, Firthley
added, “Bow Street has a contingent dedicated to her capture.”

A beam of light through the window caught on
the cut crystal glass in his hand, so Nick followed the bouncing
colors rather than focusing on Firthley’s words. Finally, when the
silence grew too heavy to support itself, and with no certainty
about whether he cared to hear another word about Michelle
Delacroix, Nick looked up.

“What have you learned?”

Though he was the person most anxious for her
to be found and brought to justice, Nick dreaded the answer more
than he had considered. Stomach twisting, throat choking on the
endless possibilities, he simply didn’t know if he could bear to
hear what awful plans Malbourne’s whore had made for the woman Nick
loved.

Firthley poured Nick another drink, as he had
somehow emptied his glass without noticing. While Nick settled into
the brandy and struggled out of his confusion, Firthley crossed to
place the decanter back on the sideboard and continued, seemingly
unaware of Nick’s now-precarious state of mind.

“
Michelle Delacroix is
actually Michelle Lemaître.
Mrs. Claude Lemaître. Her
husband was one of the leaders of the Revolution in Alsace, but
dead the past twenty years.”

Nick sat forward with the first semblance of
interest in anything but Bella in a sennight. At Firthley’s lengthy
silence, his foot began to tap and he sat on his free hand to keep
from continual drumming against the arm of the chair or the top of
the desk, “What are you not saying?”

“I wish to make it clear, I’ve already taken
Charlotte to task, so there is no need to lay blame…”

“Blame?” Nick was sure his eyebrows might fly
off his forehead at the thought Charlotte might have a hand in
this. “What is it she’s done?”

“Well… it is unfortunate… and most unusual
for my wife… strictly speaking, she is quite diligent…”

“Speak up, man! What is it?”

“Well… we now know the Baronesse de Montoire,
to whom Mrs. Lemaître alluded in her employment letter, does not
exist, nor the Viscomtesse de Gourgue, who purportedly wrote her
character. The Comtesse de Châtillon died by guillotine in Toulouse
in 1790, so it is unlikely Mrs. Lemaître was ever in her employ. It
seems Malbourne and his mistress assumed no one would confirm the
particulars of a reference on the Continent. And they were entirely
correct.”

Firthley took a sip of his drink while Nick
digested how simple it had been for Malbourne to effect his wicked
plan. As a wide range of emotions crossed his mind too quickly to
pinpoint, Firthley watched him closely, Nick supposed to determine
where the roulette wheel might stop. While waiting for Nick to
manage his response, Firthley couldn’t seem to keep himself from
continued explanation, though clearly uncertain whether it would
help of hinder his cause.

“I have initiated investigations into the
rest of the Huntleigh’s servants and ours, so you needn’t concern
yourself about any continued threat. I hope you understand Lady
Firthley—”

“Of course not.” Nick waved off Firthley’s
concern, unprepared to cause discord or find fault with the best
allies he and Bella had. “Charlotte is the last person who would
mean harm to Bella, and she will castigate herself far more than I
ever could.”

“Indeed.”

Nick sat back, the twists and turns of the
case now beginning to fall, if not into place, at least into a
recognizable shape for a puzzle. “I would like to know how
Malbourne ended up with a revolutionary as co-conspirator.”

Firthley held up a hand, palm facing Nick.
“Before you begin asking questions for which I have no answers,
there will be a man here from one of His Majesty’s regiments in
half an hour to update us both on the latest developments. Until
then, there are concerns I prefer not be addressed by official
channels.”

An even greater sense of inevitable
foreboding fell onto Nick’s shoulders with the weight of ten wool
sacks, shattering the puzzle into smaller pieces, destroying even
the vague outline. Shaking off the feeling, he went to the
sideboard, allowing the drinks he had already imbibed to numb his
body as well as his mind. Choosing the decanter of brandy, he
poured himself another tumbler. With any luck, he would be sotted
before long.

As Firthley’s silence lengthened, Nick said,
“You may as well begin. It cannot possibly be worse than Bella
half-dead upstairs.”

“It is not… well…” He cleared his throat and
wound the orrery on his desk, setting the planets spinning in their
small, contained orbit, his eyes tracking the movement as if he
might sail to Ceres to avoid what had to be said. “There are…
verses.”

With the barest minimum of movement, Nick set
the glass down with a heavy sigh.

“I suppose caricatures, too?”

“Yes, well… you cannot expect the
ton
to allow the scandal of the year—nay, the century—to go unremarked.
Not when the newspapers have shown so much interest.”

Before he turned back to face Firthley, Nick
took several sips of his brandy, welcoming the warmth in the back
of his throat, keeping at bay the emotions he had been choking on
for days.

“How bad are the newspapers?” he asked,
returning to his chair, decanter in hand.

Firthley turned his glass in his hands, then
leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “It is beyond the gossip
columns now. No more
Countess of H and Duke of W.
The story
has reached the front page. You both stand accused in the court of
public opinion,” he paused, “and you are being crucified.”

It was no less than he should have expected,
but until now, Nick hadn’t been forced to consider the
implications. If it were only his reputation, he would shake off
the tittle-tattle and go about his business. No matter how
tarnished, his title and wealth were in no jeopardy at all.

Bella, on the other hand, could lose
everything—the Huntleigh business enterprises, her houses and
servants, her welcome in any household of the
ton
, even her
title, should the king take up against her. If, of course, she
managed to survive her injuries.

“I want to see the verses. I assume you have
copies?”

“When you have finished your drink. And
perhaps one more.”

Nick threw back the brandy, and Firthley
poured him another. Once Nick had sipped it, Firthley sifted
through a stack of documents in his desk drawer. He hesitated
before handing Nick the pile of leaflets featuring awful
caricatures of Nick and Bella, making her look ugly, grasping, and
wanton and Nick lecherous, brawny, and mean.

“New ones each day, making the rounds of the
coffeehouses and clubs. You understand. You’ve seen it before.”

Countess H took two dukes to her bed

While the earl’s life hung by just a thread

One duke killed the other

Which has left her no lover

Once her last offer loses his head.

Isabella played two-faced bed games

With two dukes, wanton and unashamed

By the skin of his duchy

Wellbridge might just be lucky

And stay out of the sheriff’s picture frame.

The cit’s widow had planned to elope

But her nuptials were just forlorn hope

She couldn’t choose which to marry

Now has two more to bury

Once Wellbridge is hung by a rope.

Nick waved it at the marquess. “This is how
they are talking about her?”

“And you. Keep reading.”

The most dangerous duke in the land

Took a mistress by royal command

A Frenchman made her an offer

To get his hand in the coffer

The duke is loosed by the noose from her hand.

The most dangerous duke on the dock

Whose lady led him ‘round by the cock

Had no need for henchmen

When dispatching a Frenchman

So the duke finds his head on the block

The most dangerous duke undeterred

Went after the king’s ladybird

Tho’ she ran ‘cross the channel

To dismantle her scandal

The duke’s fisticuffs had the last word.

“They are saying she is Prinny’s
mistress
?!”

This was a terrible turn, placing her in the
ranks of fallen women lined up against the more popular queen. Not
to mention the king would have to publicly disavow her, should
gossip about the incident threaten his precarious accord with
Parliament.

“She has been the most notorious woman in
England for six long months,” Firthley reminded Nick, “enjoyed the
protection of His Majesty, and has taken two dukes out of the
marriage mart. The
ton
has been dying for a way to push her
out of favor, and the earl is no longer here to defend her. The
response was predictable.”

The sound of papers rattling drew Nick’s
attention to his shaking hand, so he placed the stack of leaflets
on the desk next to the drink he might spill if he weren’t
careful.

“She has done nothing wrong.”

“I agree, of course—there is no woman in
England less likely to cuckold her husband—but I think it unlikely
you can carry the argument.”

Nick cleared his throat, sat back and crossed
his ankle over his knee, and began worrying the carved wood on the
arm of his chair, eyes shifting. Firthley gave him a sharp look,
but chose to maintain the well-built pretense under which they had
all been operating.

“While her husband lay dying, she was
closeted with you in your townhouse, then Malbourne in his carriage
and at the Blue Bear Inn. Once there, with the king’s personal
guard standing by, one of her erstwhile paramours was killed by the
other. A man who is, by the by, a known adulterer and
libertine.”

Nick had never been more repentant of his
many excesses, an unfamiliar sense of shame engulfing him, though,
in the back of his mind, he knew they were the smallest part of the
scandal that had ensued. Trying to sort through all the possible
rumors would surely be his death, so he stopped contemplating them
altogether.

Having been forced to discuss it, however,
Firthley would not now free him from the consequence.

“Witnesses saw her leave your house and
arrive first at the livery, then the Blue Bear with Malbourne, they
are saying insensible from drink. Or worse, an opium addiction that
purportedly began while she was in the Orient.”

“That never—”

Firthley held out his finger to stop Nick
from continuing.

“There are conflicting accounts of whether
she secretly married you or Malbourne by special license before her
flight from London, which one it might have been, and whose
side-slip she may be carrying—or is no longer carrying, as she has
taken to bed—including a persistent rumor it must be Prinny’s.”

“What?!” This was far, far worse than he’d
thought. Nick stood and began pacing the floor in front of the
desk.

Ignoring Nick, Firthley continued the
recital. “It is commonly agreed she was cuckolding her husband with
all three of you the past few months, while Huntleigh made her a
countess and gave her free rein of his money. It is being said she
bankrupt the earl, just to set herself up to catch a duke as soon
as he died. Never mind the conflicting reports of the extraordinary
wealth she inherited, a prize for which every fortune hunter in
England is preparing to compete.”

Nick stopped his pointless striding back and
forth, back and forth, back and forth, accomplishing nothing. He
reached for the glass, but stopped. With thinking to do, Blakeley
was correct; drinking was most often the beginning, rather than
end, of Nick’s problems. As much as it might pain him—and
assuredly, it would—remaining clear-headed was the best course.

“This is unbelievable.”

“How long have you been a member of the
aristocracy? This is entirely believable. It should not even be a
shock. Before they are finished, the
ton
will have you and
Malbourne sharing her favors, then selling her into white slavery
for ten pence. It does not matter what happened, or why it
happened, only
that
it happened. I cannot begin to explain
the breadth of the scandal.”

“So, no vouchers to Almack’s this week.”

“Quite. Even for a duke, this will be no easy
thing.”

Nick had been tarred with scandal’s brush
more times than he could count, and had long since stopped worrying
about his name in the papers, but this was entirely beyond the
pale. This was no longer the type of scandal forgotten after a
sojourn in the country or a Season on the Continent, but rather,
the kind that ended with titles rescinded and peers’ heads in
nooses.

“I am not in Newgate. Does that mean I am not
yet a common murderer?”

Firthley picked up a quill and tapped it
against the leather top of his desk. “That remains to be seen,
though you have the entire history of the British nobility in your
favor, including the King’s Guards who report Malbourne’s death by
the butt of a rifle when he tried to escape.”