He let out a grunt of frustration. “Who did you see? Out with it, man!” he snapped.
“Your uncle, Lord Whitwood,” Martin supplied after an uncertain glance at the housekeeper. “He handed money to a man, and I heard Lord Whitwood refer to him as Bertram Thornton.”
The name sounded familiar to Richard, but he could not recall why. Mrs. Silverstone sensed his dilemma and pulled out a folded sheet from her pocket, lowering it onto the top of his desk before she pointed at something written on it. The first thing Richard noticed was that this was the gossip sheet that had publicized his wife’s affair. The next was that below the housekeeper’s finger, a name had been printed in bold next to the title of their scandal.
Bertram Thornton.
“He is the gossip columnist forThe Scandal Gazette, Your Grace, and I believe that your uncle paid him to write the article that tore you and Her Grace apart,” Martin added.
“That is quite a reach, Mr. Aldridge. You should add storyteller to your list of skills. Or perhaps you can apply for a job atthe Scandal Gazette, seeing as you might not have much of a future training dogs henceforth,” Richard said, believing the tale that had been spun in an effort to waste his time.
“Your Grace, if you still doubt him, then I ask you to believe in me as the housekeeper who has looked after you for years. I never saw anything remotely suspicious occur between Mr. Aldridge and Her Grace. He only ever did his duty as a dog trainer, and when that was done, he retired to his chamber. What could he possibly hope to gain from crafting an elaborate story like this? Your uncle, on the other hand, has never shown you an ounce of kindness or warmth. He did not get along with your father, and he looked down on you when you became Duke after your brother’s passing. It was quite clear that he wanted the dukedom for himself. If anyone had something to gain from your ruin, it would be him,” Mrs. Silverstone pointed out.
Richard’s lips parted, the urge to refute what he had been told almost instinctive, but no words left his mouth as what he had just heard echoed in his mind.
Mrs. Silverstone is right.
A horrifying chill crawled down his spine.
His uncle had never liked the idea of him becoming Duke. And as farfetched as it seemed, by casting doubt on Richard’s ability to fulfill his duties as Duke while also preserving and protecting the family’s honor, it would be pretty easy for Lord Whitwood to position himself as a more suitable candidate to inherit the title.
Richard recalled the day his uncle had come to greet him after his wedding, how perturbed he seemed by the fact that his nephew had found a wife, a tactic he knew would only further secure Richard’s claim to the title. Richard remembered the underhanded comments that appeared playful and harmless but had been made to demean him in front of Nancy.
But Nancy… she hadn’t listened to any of them. Even then, she had stuck by him and supported him. And perhaps that had been simply because she did not wish to lose the offer he had made for her family—he appreciated the gesture, and it had meant a lot to him.
But he hadn’t trusted her as much as she had trusted him, too consumed by his insecurities to believe in her when she had begged him to.
God, he had been such a fool.
“Thank you both,” Richard started, lifting his gaze to look up at his staff, “for helping me see the truth. You are absolutely right. I’ve been so blinded by my own faults that I couldn’t take the time to think within reason. I will never forget how much you have helped me in this moment.”
“It was our pleasure, Your Grace,” Mrs. Silverstone sighed in relief.
“What will you do next?” Martin wondered curiously.
Richard nudged the bottle of whiskey aside and folded his hands on top of his desk.
“I will put an end to this ridiculous charade, once and for all.” Then he turned to the housekeeper, and he said, “Fetch Ernest for me.”
Once the butler arrived, he sat back and issued a single order.
“Invite my uncle over for tea tomorrow.”
ChapterTwenty-One
“Nannie?”
Nancy heard a gentle voice come from behind her door. Well, notherdoor; the door of the room in Bluebird Hall, her family’s new residence.Herdoor was back at Wexford.
Yet after what had transpired, perhaps it would never be her door again.
“Nannie, are you awake?” the voice persisted and Nancy soon recognized it—only one person called her like that.
“Yes, Bea,” she called out hoarsely and cleared her throat, hoping she’d sound less like a swamp creature when she spoke again, “Come in.”
Beatrice’s head poked from the opening of the door, and her younger sister slid inside the room, holding a silver tray with her delicate fingers.
“I brought over some blueberry scones and tea. The maids said they informed you the cook had made some, but you told them you didn’t want any. I didn’t believe them, so I decided to bring them over myself,” she said and gingerly closed the door with her foot.
