Page 80 of Love and the Shameless Lady

Chapter 12

Julian retreated to his room next door in an uncharacteristically stormy mood. He’d had to control his voice. He never lost his temper, but Daisy was driving him mad. Why in hell’s name couldn’t she trust him?

He sat for a moment. Frustrated, he stood, paced, then went to the window. The summer evening was slowly yielding to dusk. A shepherd and his dog herded their flock on a distant meadow. The Dower House showed no sign of life. Closer by, the summerhouse gleamed white against the darkening trees. He supposed he should make a point of viewing the mosaic beneath it, although it didn’t seem to matter as much as it would ordinarily.

Damn, he wasn’t usually so ungentle, and never so with a woman. He didn’t think it was frustrated libido; he’d always had more than enough control over his physical desires. What burned most was not being trusted. He’d spent his entire life becoming and being a trustworthy man, unlike his father, who’d run into debt through sheer folly. He’d found a way to pay off the debts, but he’d sworn he wouldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. He was and always would be a man of his word.

But that didn’t mean she had to trust him. That was up to her, and he couldn’t do a thing about it except continue to be his usual trustworthy self.

Except when it came to seditionists and potential traitors. God Almighty, he hated the job he was obliged to do, however necessary. Under ordinary circumstances, some of those so-called seditionists might easily become his friends.

And, it seemed, a friend might easily become a thief.

He turned from the window. He would speak to Daisy again later. She was safe for the moment, since everyone believed he was with her. For now, he had to decide how to confront Philippe de Bellechasse.

He had no proof that Phillipe was the thief, which was why he’d made the suggestion that the thefts were connected: to see how both Philippe and Antoine reacted. Philippe, by far the cooler of the two, had given the obvious response, that it was unlikely. Then he’d hurried the lingering Antoine out of the room with a sharp command—before the man betrayed his consternation? That, on the contrary, seemed probable.

The marquis had stayed at the Diving Duck several times over the past year or so, so Daisy had had ample opportunity to overhear something and then forget it. He’d recently visited several of the locations where items had been stolen. The fact that he’d volunteered information about one of the thefts proved nothing; it might be an innocent comment or a way of appearing innocent.

He didn’t think Philippe was here to steal, but rather to reconnoiter. Surely the theft would take place at a later date, when he—or more likely, Antoine—would not be suspected. The servant’s practice of selling silks and lace gave him access to many great homes, the opportunity to befriend the other servants, to spy out the premises . . .

But, much as Julian wished he could place the entire blame on the servant, he couldn’t do it. The marquis was a cool, clever man capable of masterminding a series of thefts. Antoine, ruled by the resentments of his class, lacked the necessary forethought and self-control.

No, the greater blame lay on Philippe. No doubt the marquis had friends all over England who trusted him, welcomed him, and then lost valuable possessions to him.

Despicable, but to try to murder an innocent woman was far, far worse.

He found it impossible to believe that Philippe was such a man.

He pulled himself together. He should just get on with it. Perhaps a search of Philippe’s bedchamber would produce some solid evidence, and if he or his valet found him there . . . well, he would deal with that if it happened. He loaded one of his pistols, a small one that fit in his coat pocket, and armed himself with a knife as well. He didn’t think Philippe was so foolish as to attack him, but once trust was lost, anything seemed possible.

A minute later, Julian tapped gently on the door of the marquis’ room and, receiving no response, went inside and shut the door behind him. He lit a candle and glanced about. The marquis was a tidy man, or perhaps that was the work of his valet. Julian went carefully through what documents and correspondence were to be found. An invoice for a crate shipped from Newcastle to the Diving Duck proved interesting. Did the marquis store his booty there temporarily, and then move it later to his own estate? Or did he smuggle it from there to France, perhaps? Despite his scornful words to Lord Hythwick, he might well be in the business of restoring plundered goods to their French owners, at a no doubt exorbitant price.

Even more interesting was the name of the recipient at the Diving Duck. Antoine Breton. A coincidence, that the surname was the same as the man who, years before, had auctioned a number of stolen items to collectors? Perhaps not Antoine himself. He would have been in his teens at the time. But a father, a brother, a cousin? If so, was Antoine engaged in stealing back the very same items? If so, why?

Julian put the documents where he’d found them and returned to his own room. No sound came from the bedchamber next door. No doubt Daisy was fast asleep. Yawning, he settled himself to wait for a chance of private speech with Philippe. He heard Melinda Garrison speaking to a maid. A while later Lord Hythwick’s loud, stomping footsteps went down the opposite wing. A coach rolled by below the window, probably Gloriana returning to the Dower House. At last, more voices, Lord Garrison and the Marquis de Bellechasse. Julian opened his door very slightly.

“Surely you don’t mean to let your sister marry that loud-mouthed fool,” Philippe said.

“I don’t have much choice.” Miles Garrison sounded grumpy. “She is of age.”

“But you hold the purse strings, do you not?”

“No, she inherited a house in London and a considerable independence from an aunt. But I don’t suspect Hythwick of fortune hunting. He doesn’t need the money. He lusts after my sister, and so he will have her.”

Philippe let out a French oath. “It disgusts me, the thought of him with Gloriana.”

There was a silence. “Do I infer that you have an interest in my sister, marquis?”

Philippe gave a harsh laugh. “At one time, I thought so. She seemed intelligent, and she is very pretty when she lets her guard down. But, forgive me for speaking plainly, she has proven to be a fool, so . . . no longer.”

“A pity,” Miles said. “She will be miserable with Hythwick.”

Perhaps, but even Hythwick was better than a murderer. And if Philippe proved innocent . . . well, Julian wouldn’t wish Gloriana on anyone, particularly not his valued friend.

They went their separate ways, and Julian sat down to wait until he and Philippe would be assured privacy for their discussion, or altercation, or fistfight—whatever it might prove to be.

The soft footsteps of servants passed back and forth. The old house creaked as it settled for the night. At last, Julian took his candle and went into the dark corridor.