Suddenly, the door opened and Gregory jumped. What was Angeline doing already out of bed? But he sighed when he saw that it was only Mrs. Bancroft.
“How is she doing?” Gregory asked, looking through the door briefly until the housekeeper pulled it close.
“As well as can be expected, My Lord. She’s not a young lady, to be sure, and any kind of fall can prove dangerous. This time, however, I think we are all quite lucky!”
“That is good news,” he answered, exhaling with relief. But the look on the housekeeper’s face stopped him. “Is something the matter?”
“Begging your pardon, My Lord,” Mrs. Bancroft answered quietly, looking in every direction and seeming to be discomforted, “but I was there when her ladyship spoke to the physician, of course. And well… I did not like what I chanced to hear.”
“Ah. So what he said was true. She accuses me of harming her?” Gregory asked, already knowing the answer to that.
“Aye, My Lord. And please, I do know my place, but… if it should be necessary, I saw the entire exchange. I know from my own eyes that you did not push her down or cause her any harm. Quite a few of us were standing nearby. And should it come to that, we will happily speak the truth to whomever needs a detailed reporting.”
The Duke smiled gratefully. “I thank you for that, truly. I hope it will not be necessary, but it does bring me great relief to know that I am believed. I think the physician saw it that way, as well. But I do have to ask something of you.”
“Anything, My Lord!” the housekeeper answered.
“Do not make it known among the staff that she has accused me this way—”
“Never in all my years would I, sir!” she interrupted crossly.
“Of course you would not,” Gregory said, smiling kindly, “but do not let on to Lady Lasconia that I know of her accusation, either. There is a plot afoot, a strange one to be sure, and it will serve me well if she thinks I fear her next move.”
Chapter 16
“Aletter has arrived for you, My Lord,” the butler said as he entered the room with a correspondence on a small silver tray. He kept his other hand behind his back as he bowed a bit, proffering the tray slightly. Charles glanced at the letter and, seeing that it was not the fine stationery he was accustomed to, snatched at the letter in alarm.
“Oh, thank you,” he said absently, dismissing the butler. Dabney bowed once again and left the room, leaving Charles to frown as he looked down at the coarse writing and the rough fold of the paper.
Unfolding its uneven edges, Charles skimmed the page quickly, not taking in the full weight of its contents until he’d read it twice, three times even. It wasn’t difficult to read, as its message was rather short: pay the next amount due, or consequences would be enacted.
Charles’ heart sank. He knew exactly what those consequences entailed, he’d already signed papers against the possibility of defaulting on his most recent borrowings. But where was he to find the money to pay this particular debt?
He got up from his desk and paced the room. He had to think of something, and do so quickly. His heart began to beat furiously in his chest at the weight of this news.
Charles’ pacing chanced to take him past the portrait of his beloved wife. He glanced up at the image, a wonderful likeness that truly did her justice, not just in her exceptional beauty but in the way that it captured everything about her. Margaret’s intelligence, compassion, and love for her family were trapped inside the swirls and dabs of paint, far from where Charles could reach them. Only when her image blurred before his eyes did Charles realize that the tears had welled up again, fresh after all these years.
“I know what I have to do, my dearest, and it pains my heart more than any sword driven straight through me. Forgive me, Margaret, I beg you.”
Charles returned to his desk and pulled a fresh piece of paper to the blotter, dipped his pen, and began to write. When that letter was finished, he reached for another piece of paper, and then another, and then another. He wrote with an energy fueled by desperation and anger. The more he wrote, the more hardened his heart became.
Why was all of this my fault?he asked himself angrily.I’ve only tried to do what would have taken place had the fates not taken Margaret from me! Should anyone dare question my motives, I will next see him at the end of my musket!
When his stack of letters was completed, Charles sat back in his chair and stared at the pile, his resolve faltering for a moment. Once sent, it would be done. There would be no turning back, and for a moment, he cast a glance at the low fire crackling in the fireplace. He could burn these, and no one would ever be the wiser.
No. I must do it, he thought weakly, too heartbroken to move from his chair or summon the butler to post the letters. Instead, it was enough for now that he’d written them. He would worry about posting them another time.
As he recovered from his mental exhaustion, a new thought wormed its way into Charles’ mind. What if there was another way, one that wouldn’t bring him further ruin when the ton inevitably learned of his business these past few years? Surely upon receiving these letters, the tongues would wag and their name—his name—would be worth less than his bank accounts. What if all of that could be avoided?
Charles wrote one last letter, hoping that this one could be a way out that would spare them all the ultimate humiliation.
* * *
“Whoa, girl,” Marjorie whispered to Winter as they approached the gates that had been erected as a starting line. Keeping her voice low to avoid detection, she looked up to the other two riders who’d been working with their horses all morning. “Ready?”
“Are you gonna race her, Jonathan, or talk her to death all mornin’?” one of the riders called out, much to the laughter of the other.
“Aye, we’re ready!” Jonathan called back, absently tugging his cap to make sure it stayed in place should Winter do something unexpected.
