The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (31 page)

“Do you have another entrance I might use?”
Victoria stood on her tiptoes to peer over the modiste’s shoulder
toward the rear of the shop. “Perhaps in the back,” she
whispered.

Mrs. Bowman squinted at Victoria and tilted
her head as though seeking the answer to a confounding question.
The woman blinked, her frown cleared, and she nodded. Tugging
Victoria’s hands, she muttered, “Come.”

She led her through the curtain, past the
dressing area where two of her assistants knelt, pinning the hem of
a wide-eyed matron, and finally, into a tiny room cluttered with
bolts of fabric, books of fashion plates, and a desk piled high
with papers. Mrs. Bowman picked up a large ledger from a wooden
chair and slid it onto a shelf, waving to indicate Victoria should
sit, then seating herself in a red-cushioned chair before the
desk.

The modiste brushed her hand absently along
the side of her neat coiffure, folded her hands together, and
leaned across the desk to stare shrewdly at Victoria. “You are good
customer, Lady Atherbourne. But this request, it is … unusual,
yes?”

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose it is. Normally, I
would never ask such a thing. But I am afraid extraordinary
circumstances demand an unusual response.”

“Hmm. And what are these extraordinary
circumstances?”

Victoria blinked, pausing to decide how much
to tell the woman. And what, precisely, to say. “I need to visit my
brother’s residence.”

“The duke, yes? Berkeley Square.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you not simply drive there in your
carriage?” Mrs. Bowman waved a hand in the direction of the street,
where the Atherbourne carriage was parked, awaiting her return.

“That is a bit complicated.”

The woman nodded knowingly, uttering another
“Hmm,” and waving to signal Victoria should elaborate.

Victoria sighed. “The coachman will not drive
me there.”

“But he will drive you here.”

“Yes.”

“You could hire a hack.”

“I suppose I could,” she replied reluctantly,
“if reaching my destination were the sole purpose of today’s
outing.”

Mrs. Bowman again nodded, then sat quietly
staring at Victoria for a full minute. It made her want to squirm
in her seat. But if she could not persuade the modiste to allow her
use of an alternate entrance, she would be forced to abandon her
plan. And that was intolerable.

Finally, the woman’s fingertips tapped firmly
on the desk, and she nodded. “Your husband, he is … kind to
you?”

She thought for a moment, then answered
honestly. “Yes.”

“You love him?”

Victoria glanced down at her hands. The gray
kid gloves had been a gift from Harrison. And her husband had
arranged to separate her from him. Her family. Her brother.

“That is not the question,” she said softly,
meeting the modiste’s dark, understanding gaze. “The question is,
does he love me?” She swallowed against a sudden tightness in her
throat, her chest squeezing around an aching heart.

Mrs. Bowman smiled in the mysterious way she
often did before saying something cryptic. “Men can be … how do you
say? Goat-headed, no?”

Victoria frowned. “I believe you mean
pigheaded.”

She waved dismissively. “Bah. Pig, goat. It
is all the same. Do not mistake stupidity for coldness,
cara
mia
. All men are stupid sometimes. This does not mean they do
not love.” The dark-haired woman stood and took Victoria’s elbow.
“Come. There is a door you may use.” With that, she guided her
through a short series of corridors, then opened a green painted
door to reveal a rain-washed, narrow alley running along one side
of the building. “Do not tarry, eh? And when you come next time,
perhaps you will buy a new spencer.”

Victoria grinned at the modiste. “Thank you,
Mrs. Bowman. Perhaps I will.” She descended four wooden stairs,
then stepped carefully around the deeper puddles, trying hard not
to breathe the putrid air. The alley was strewn with refuse of all
sorts, clearly serving more as a dumping ground than a pathway
between buildings. At last, she approached the opening to Bond
Street, flattening herself against the edge of the building and
peering around the corner. Connell stood with the footman who had
accompanied them next to the Atherbourne carriage, about thirty
feet away. She timed her exit carefully, waiting for a thick group
of young misses and their chaperones to approach before exiting the
narrow space onto the thoroughfare, weaving amongst the other
pedestrians so as not to be noticed. With every step, she was sure
Connell would spot her, would demand she return to the coach, would
run off and alert Lucien. The thought made her heart pound and
quickened her feet. She wanted Lucien to know he had been thwarted,
but not just yet. Not while he could still stop her.

Fortunately, she turned onto Bruton Street
without raising any alarms. She twisted her head around to be
certain no one followed—and ran directly into a bony wall housed in
a greatcoat much too heavy for the mild summer weather.

“Ooph!” It took her a moment to reel back and
get a look at what she had collided with, which turned out to be a
rather scruffy man wearing a brimmed hat that shadowed his
face.

“Beg pardon, my lady. Didn’t see you there,”
he said without meeting her eyes. Of course, he was a good deal
taller than she, but it seemed he was in a hurry, as he quickly
steadied her with a hand beneath her elbow, backed up, and
nervously tried to sidestep her.

She spun as he passed, grabbing his sleeve.
“Wait! I know you, don’t I? You look familiar.”

He shook his head and tugged out of her grip.
“Never met you, ma’am. Must be off, now.” Moving away with a
shuffling gait, the rangy man appeared eager to escape. But now she
knew with a certainty only a portraitist could muster—he was the
one she had seen that day outside of Jane’s house. The one she
suspected had been following her for some time.

“I know you’ve been hired to watch me,” she
shouted. It stopped him dead, giving her a chance to catch up. “All
I wish to know is who retained your services. Was it Lord
Atherbourne?”

Reluctantly, he met her eyes. His were tired
and red in a creased, unhandsome face. He looked as though he had
not slept in weeks. “Nay, my lady.”

Her chin tilted. “What is your name?”

He looked around the street in discomfort.
“Drayton, ma’am.”

“Who hired you, Drayton?”

He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his
nose. “Don’t suppose it matters if I tell you, so long as it don’t
get back to Atherbourne.”

She folded her arms and shot him an expectant
look.

“Blackmore hired me to keep an eye on you, my
lady. Make certain you’d come to no harm.”

“My brother hired you?” She’d thought surely
Lucien had done so to ensure that she complied with his wishes. The
idea that it was Harrison instead had not occurred to her. “Why
would he not simply come for a visit and see for himself?”

She murmured the question to herself, but
Drayton answered, “It’s my understanding he tried, my lady. A few
times, in fact. Was turned away at the door.”

Shock flaring through her, she watched the
disheveled Mr. Drayton shift from one foot to the other as though
he desperately needed to visit the privy. He glanced furtively
around Bruton Street. “Are you in a rush, Mr. Drayton?”

“Be honest, ma’am, yes I am. Must be off,
now.” He tipped his hat to her distractedly as he backpedaled away.
She watched in bewilderment as he tossed a warning over his
shoulder. “Best hurry on to the square, my lady. Never know who you
might encounter on the street.” He turned at the corner and was
gone.

Heeding his advice, and eager to find
answers, she wasted no time in traversing Bruton Street into
Berkeley Square. Within minutes, she was ascending the steps to
Clyde-Lacey House, the familiar brick edifice and tall, symmetrical
rows of windows sending a wave of comfort and longing over her in a
shiver. Distracted, she nearly entered without knocking, but paused
with her hand hovering over the knob. This was not her home any
longer. The thought was both sad and strange. She knocked and
waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, glancing
down at her dress to ensure she hadn’t muddied the hem on her
ignominious journey through the alley.

The door opened. “Lady Victoria! Rather, Lady
Atherbourne. What a delight it is to see you.”

Victoria gave Digby, the duke’s sandy-haired,
starchy butler, a beaming smile. As always, the man was impeccable,
without a hair out of place. Typically stiff as a north wind, he
had always had a soft spot for her, his brown eyes currently
sparkling with genuine pleasure. “Won’t you come in, my lady?”

“Thank you, Digby.” Once inside, she shocked
the man with a quick hug. “I have missed you.” She tugged at his
lapel playfully, the way she had at ten years old. “I see you have
not yet taken the Earl of Dunston up on his offer to change
employers. That is good for the duke, but perhaps less than
wise.”

Digby gave her a rare wink and replied,
“Someone must prevent the kingdom from descending into chaos. I
fear that duty falls to me.”

She laughed. “Is the duke here? I must speak
with him.”

The butler’s smile softened into an
apologetic expression. “I’m afraid his grace is out at the moment,
my lady, and is not expected back for hours. He will be most
distressed to have missed you.”

Her spirits slumped at this news,
disappointment deflating her like cold rain on a loaf of bread.
She’d been so certain if only she could reach Clyde-Lacey House and
speak to Harrison, all would be well. Her brother had a way of
making everything all right again. She shook her head against the
tide of welling emotion, willing her tears to back down. It would
not do to weep in front of Digby.

The butler cleared his throat.

“Well, I suppose there is no point in
waiting, then.” She sighed, glancing around the entrance hall,
absently noting the familiar green walls and black-and-white marble
floor. Harrison was fond of green. So was Colin, for that matter.
It was one of the few things they had in common.

She paused, a thought occurring to her.
“Digby, is Colin in?”

Digby hesitated before answering, “Yes, I
believe so, my lady. Perhaps you would like to wait in the parlor.
Mrs. Jones will bring you some tea, while I inform his lordship of
your arrival.”

And, just like that, her spirits came in out
of the rain. “That would be lovely, Digby. Simply lovely.”

*~*~*

Mud splashed onto his boots as Lucien
dismounted, but he barely noticed. He ran his hand over Hugo’s
flank and patted the horse’s shoulder affectionately. The gelding
nodded his head and snorted softly. Lucien smiled for no particular
reason and handed the reins to the stable boy.

His knuckles and ribs were a trifle sore, but
all in all, his lot was far better than he would have predicted a
year ago. Victoria was his. The duke had been punished. Chatham had
been dealt with. Soon, they would return to Thornbridge, and he
would dedicate himself to getting Victoria with child.

Anticipation ran down his spine at the
thought. Yes, he would relish seeing her blossom with his babe. She
would make a wonderful mother, loving and gentle. And once she had
little ones to dote on, a family of her own, her determination to
reunite with her brothers would fade. He was certain of it.

His step light and brisk, he entered the
house, calling for Billings. The stooped butler shuffled in from
the dining room. “Welcome home, my lord. How was Gentleman
Jackson’s?”

Lucien grinned and handed the man his hat and
gloves. “Quite bracing. I met up with an old friend.” Indeed,
teaching Chatham a well-deserved lesson about the dangers of
spreading lies had been worth the damage the other man had
inflicted. Flexing his fingers to test the soreness, he glanced
toward the curved staircase, wondering if Victoria was still
painting as she had been when he left. “Is Lady Atherbourne in her
studio?”

Billings paused, long seconds ticking by
before he answered. “No, my lord.”

Lucien frowned, turning slowly to face his
butler. “Then where is she?” he asked softly.

Swallowing visibly, the old man straightened
and answered, “I believe she is visiting her modiste.”

Something in Billings’s demeanor—the slight
tremor in his voice, the carefully blank expression—caused dread to
spread inside Lucien’s chest like frost over a windowpane. “She
took the carriage, then?”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

“And she asked only to visit her modiste?
Nowhere else?”

Billings hesitated. “Connell is quite aware
of your wishes, my lord. I made certain of that before they
departed. He would not drive her to Berkeley Square, even were she
to order it directly.”

Lucien ground his teeth, his gut tightening
against a tide of anger and alarm. “So she did ask to visit
Clyde-Lacey house,” he said grimly.

The butler cleared his throat, but did not
answer.

“Billings!” Lucien barked.

The man sighed, defeat entering his eyes.
“Yes, my lord.”

Bloody hell.

One week, damn it. That was all that remained
of the season. One more week, and he would have whisked her off to
Thornbridge. But he should have known she would not give up easily,
would not simply let it go.

Well, my darling,
he thought grimly,
all but running to retrieve his horse.
That is something we have
in common.

Because now that she was his, letting go was
the last thing he would ever do.

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Six

“
Drunkards are useful only as opponents for
whist. Otherwise, they are no better than vermin which have
infested one’s residence. And they should be dealt with in much the
same manner.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her
nephew upon discovering his association with Viscount Chatham.