“Thank you,” Margot said. “It is kind of you to say so. Few judge a child on their own merits, they are held to the standard of propriety before they are even born.”
“I don’t judge you.” At least he could pride himself on owning that.
“No, but we cannot ignore facts. Illegitimacy, mine or your brother’s, will tarnish anyone who comes near us. Your mother’s indiscretion will have an impact on your family.” Her eyes focused on his. “Perhaps her affair has already affected you deeply. It may not be fair, but to say otherwise would be a lie.”
Knowing she was right, and knowing too the sooner he visited his mother, the sooner the matter would be addressed, Langley reluctantly stood up. “I should visit her, and as you say, tell Pip too.”
Margot did not look away, her stare unreadable. Slowly she stood too. “I have found by confronting my fears, whether that was by coming to London and seeing my father and his choices, or in our search for the keys—the choice to act has proven difficult, but it has nonetheless been a far better option than the alternative.”
She was so brave and steadfast in the growing darkness, the welcome embrace of night, that Langley would have liked to lift her up in his arms, somehow climb the wall and disappear up the steps of his townhouse with her. They could have another wondrous, exploratory night together. He would lock the door to his bedroom, and let the worries of the outside world melt away in contrast to the passion that burnt between them.
Instead, he said, “I will call on my mother this evening, at the dowager house. Then the matter will be resolved.” Stretching out her hand, Margot offered him her fingers with the gesture of understanding. He would have preferred if they could part with a kiss. Nonetheless he took the offered palm and kissed her knuckles. “I will call on you tomorrow.”
“You will, my lord?” There was a slightly teasing tone to her question. “I would assume that now we have solved the matter of the intruder, and the missing keys are found, that this would conclude our relations?”
She believed because he had bedded her, Langley was done with her. The thought rankled him, although were she any other woman, he acknowledged her statement would probably be true. He would not even be having this conversation were it anyone but Margot.
“I will call on you tomorrow, madam.” With a bow he moved away, and towards the rear of the garden, refusing the call within him to look back over his shoulder at her.
In his own stables, he saddled up his horse, and set off to his mother’s in Wimbledon, not delighted at the hour’s ride ahead of him.
Lady Susannah Beresford, the Dowager Countess of Langley, was an intimidating presence, with the exception of formal events, her only legitimate son did his best to avoid her company. The journey was far quicker than he would have liked and on his arrival at the austere, red brick Queen Anne building, Langley braced himself for her welcome. Ushered inside the house and then into a chilly guest parlour, he waited until he heard her footsteps coming down the hallway, and the door swung open.
“You were not expected, Langley. I am due to call on Lady Rotherham’s card party this evening.” His mother swept into the grand parlour. Her severe blonde beauty had hardened in her late fifties, and the creamy pearls that flashed around her throat and neck created a moonlit glow around her, contrasting against the disdainful expression she wore. With a wave of her hand, she gestured that he could take a seat. “I assume you have finally come to tell me of an unfortunate incident with some young lady or other.” She looked annoyed as she arranged herself inthe opposite seat, her expression impatient, as if she cared not a jot for her son. Which, in fairness, was always the distinct impression she gave.
It was with a small amount of pleasure that Langley shook his head. “No indeed, ma’am. I am here about your own affair, which has suddenly come to light.”
There it was, uttered, aired to the parlour. Her affair, which had destroyed his father, wrecking the man entirely, and in the aftermath affecting Silvester himself. Margot had acknowledged it earlier, and it was dawning on him now as he viewed his mother that his Amazon was right, his mother’s affair had changed him. Altered a naive attempt of his to cling to any romantic notions of marriage and fidelity. Not to mention the by-blow… Poor Pip. As far as Langley knew his mother had never seen her other son after she had birthed him.
Judging by the emotions at play across the dowager’s face, she was not pleased. Not remotely. Her eyes narrowed on him accusingly. “This is all your doing. You set the boy up in London. You insisted on doing so for him when there was no need. It was inevitable he would be seen. Presumably one of your many whores saw the similarity and now there is to be gossip. I know it is your fault. It is entirely of your doing that my good name will be damaged. Your dead father will likewise be embarrassed, all because of your selfishness, your…” For the first time words rushed out of his mother, speedy and desperate, only focused on protecting herself. Her words had always been cruel, but she had at least always managed her disdain in cuttingly shorter sentences.
Langley raised his hand in a gesture to cut her off. He was going to need a drink after this, possibly an entire bottle. “Madam, please. Enough of this self-indulgence on your part. You will be pleased to hear I have a solution.”
CHAPTER 23
Margot struggled to sleep over the next few days—nervous dreams plagued her. She liked to tell herself it was entirely down to the fact that she had not heard back from her sister or the new duke. Or the concern that after showing the numerous sets of keys to the estate’s lawyer, Mr. Holt had returned to her and said he had no clue what any of them opened. Mr. Holt had at least left looking apologetic, but this had not improved Margot’s mounting fears.
She paced around the library, wishing for the presence of Langley to return to Ashmore’s townhouse and soothe her with sometonnews, or a light remark that would make her laugh. Even the news of the Philip Caton scandal would be a distraction. Since the household was barred from social events or calls, little news had reached her, and everyone was plunged into a sombre mourning. In part Margot was pleased to mourn the late duke, but she wanted the sweet sound of Langley’s voice to cheer her. She would have thrilled if he had swooped in and wrapped her up in his arms, capturing her lips and pulling them both down onto the nearby chaise. The time apart from him had revealed one thing: she was consumed by him, fallen entirelyunder his spell, and Margot was done denying it. At least to herself.
Throwing herself down into an armchair, Margot sighed dramatically. There was very little she could do whilst she was in official mourning. In a great many ways this did not bother her since the social whirl was not overly appealing given the sudden arrival of the London heat. Still, it might have been nice to sneak out to Gunter’s for an ice, or for a pleasant boat ride along the river to Greenwich to escape some of the oppressive weather.
Surely that would be better than simply waiting and waiting for Langley to return, and being driven mad by all the things she could not resolve, being stuck inside with only Mrs. Bowley for company and the sad looking servants.
Drumming her fingers on the top of the desk in front of her, Margot mused that it was a beautiful piece of furniture. Outstanding in its grandness. It was carved from a magnificent piece of wood, ebony perhaps, although she wasn’t sure. There was something very old-fashioned about the piece. It was a rich dark brown that was almost sensual in the depth of its colour, warm enough to drown in. There were crevices delicately drawn in amongst its intricate design. Its feet were of an elaborate sort, mimicking carved fruit rounding down into points. Reaching up the legs, the vines grew larger, stretching up to support the mighty desk.
Margot moved her hands over its surface. It was a finer piece than the one in the old duke’s study. She wondered why Ashmore had not used this as his main desk—surely it would have been far more suitable for a duke? Yet another question she would never be able to ask her real father, something else he would take with him to the grave, leaving Margot with hundreds of unknowns.
With a sigh, she leant back into the armchair, her hand trailing over the drawers. Before sitting abruptly back upright,her eyes narrowing on the drawer before her. She then shifted nearer to stare closely at the small, almost box-like creation carved into the wood. Now she examined the desk more closely, she thought she could see other drawers, hidden in amongst the wooden carvings. It would be the perfect place for something small—items you wished no one else to see unless they were looking especially closely or already knew the secret.
A flutter beat through her chest, an excitement unrelated to nerves, fears, annoyance, or Langley. This was new, and the reason was simple: the tiny lock she was looking at. It was the same faintly gold colour as the keys, and it was small, slight, requiring only the littlest of keys…
Margot scrambled to her feet and rushed across the room to where she had left the bag that contained the jumble of keys. She grabbed it up and rushed back towards the desk, desperate to know for sure, and have an answer to one of the mysteries.
Why, she gasped at her own stupidity, had she never thought the diamonds might be hidden in the townhouse? After all, there was every reason to suppose that her real father had never known the location. He might have been ignorant of the clues too. And she went on, was that why Francis Nettling had returned to the scene of the crime—far less to do with getting revenge and far more to do with the treasure he had always sought? Nettling knew the truth and that was why he had returned.
She spilled open the bag, emptying it out, letting the keys spread across the carpeted surface in her sheer eagerness. Snatching one up at random, Margot hurried to crouch down by the drawer’s lock. A small wave of triumph rose in her throat when she saw the metals matched. With forced slowness, her heart beating uncomfortably in her chest, Margot lifted the key to the lock and slotted it in. For one brief moment, she thought it had worked, but then she tried to turn it, and nothing happened.
Cursing in a very unladylike manner, Margot pulled the key from the lock in sheer annoyance that it was not straightforward. It was then she spotted the tiny, intricate numbering which was on the curvature of the inner lock. Lifting the key up, she stared at it, hoping for some kind of sign. The keys were labelled with lettering from the alphabet, and the desk was inlaid with the tiny, almost unnoticeable numbers. Somehow, these two were linked as the styles were similar, but precisely how would be a challenge without the map. At least in that very moment. But she certainly had the time to simply try one key after another until one of them worked.
