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“No doubt she needs to be to put up with you, Tom.” Chastity grinned.
He pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me so.” He stabbed a large piece of meat and stuffed it into his mouth, then spoke with his mouth full. “Mrs. Lowe is a fine and rare woman, I will not deny that. However, the world is better off for it. God knows what would happen if there were more than one of them.”
“Will you be coming to Devon when the earl returns?” Jenny asked. “There isn’t enough work for you here, of that I am certain. Do you have family you will have to leave?”
“No,” Chastity lied, “And I do not know—”
“I will be discussing such a matter with his lordship,” interrupted Mrs. Cooke, her brow stern and her tone so sharp they all jumped slightly. “You would do well not to get too comfortable, Mrs. Wilding.”
Chastity glanced around, almost forgetting the fictional name she had given Mrs. Cooke. Jenny grimaced and mouthed an apology and Chastity bowed her head. With Mrs. Cooke listening into her every conversation, getting information on Julian was no easy task. She closed her eyes briefly and sighed.
If she was to prove to Lord Kendall she was a woman of her word, she would need to prove herself—and quick. The thought of him smiling all smugly when she confessed she had found out nothing made her want to curl a fist. Eleanor was her first reason for fixing this whole matter but proving to him she could do this and wiping that smirk from his face provided quite the motivation too.
∞∞∞
The icy water of the lake never warmed, even in the height of summer. Some days, Valentine hated the frigid water but pushed himself to do at least a dozen lengths every day. It bit at his skin as he stroked forcefully to the stone edge then back again. He didn’t box or fence and riding meant taking a trip down Rotten Row. So the long rectangular lake installed in the grounds by his grandfather provided the best option for exercise.
If he was in the country he’d be in the natural lake at the bottom of the sloping lawns, far away from the noise of passing traffic and pedestrians. Despite the generous lawns and the house’s position on the outskirts of London, one could not avoid the truth—he was not in the country.
And he was out of his element.
His breaths came hard and fast but he pressed further, pushing his body until he could scarcely feel his limbs and his lungs burned. Had he done twelve lengths? Thirteen? Who knew? It wasn’t enough, though.
Maybe if he swam until his arms dropped off, he would forget this whole dreadful mess. There had been no further information on Julian, and he had Chastity to add to the pile of problems. He should never have let her go through with this preposterous plan.
Now she was sneaking into bedrooms and causing all sorts of trouble. She laughed it off, but he could not do the same. His arousal that morning had little to do with the natural inclinations of man and everything to do with her—and having her in his arms.
All he had to do was remember her soft body against his and it would happen again. Freezing water be damned—nature could not outdo another act of nature it seemed.
Valentine swam up to the stone and hauled himself out of the water, then snatched the towel waiting on the stone bench at the edge of the pond, wrapping it around his waist then slipping into his shirt. The fabric stuck uncomfortably to his skin but a little discomfort might help him get a grip, he reckoned. Thus far, he had spent his days avoiding women callers and Chastity. A pathetic existence by anyone’s measure. He needed to do something. Even a vigorous swim had left his mind muddled and his body itching to act.
The trouble was, he did not have Chastity’s confidence that Julian’s death would be solved. They had nothing.
Of course, she had her sister, who had apparently had a conversation with Julian before his death.
If he spoke to her, he might court trouble. The woman would wonder at why he was so invested in his servant’s abrupt death.
Rubbing a hand over his damp beard, he blew out a breath. He could not bring himself to care at present. Something had to be done and waiting around for Chastity to do whatever it was she did was addling his mind.
Wherever did a duke’s daughter get such confidence in her investigative skills anyway? Could it simply be all that wealth, privilege and adulation that made her this way? He’d met many a privileged woman in his life and none of them had opted to disguise themselves and start pretending they were some private investigator. He really had made a mistake allowing her to run rampant around his house.
Valentine strode into the house and headed upstairs. Lane waited for him in his bedroom and aided him in dressing. He even conceded to a cravat, for appearance’s sake. The beard could stay however.
After ordering his carriage ready, he lingered over the morning meal, then headed into the library until a more respectable time. What Chastity might think of him visiting and questioning her sister, he did not know, but he imagined if she was willing to take the role of a servant, she loved her sister dearly.
He could not deny admiring such loyalty. He’d loved Anne just as much but he must not have shown it enough, or else she would have come to him when she found herself with child. Maybe if he had behaved as Chastity did, the whole matter would not have come to such a sorry outcome.
Of course, he was not at all inclined to disguise himself as a footman. Only that madwoman could come up with such an idea.
The journey from his house to the Duke of Daventry’s home reminded Valentine how much he loathed being in London. Despite Heath Lodge being on the outskirts of London and still being relatively busy, it was nothing compared to the center of Town. People flowed through the streets like rivers, not caring if they ran into one another, scarcely stopping to breathe and risking their necks every time they crossed the road. Other vehicles stopped in inconvenient spots, blocking the road, and allowing Valentine far too much time to wonder what he was doing.
Nothing was the answer. He could sit and wait no longer.
Guildbury Hall occupied a generous plot not far from the Thames and in the most fashionable and expensive part of London. Set back from the road and surrounded by vast iron gates, the gardens around it offered almost as much of a feeling of countryside as his house did—though one could see passing traffic even when he reached the front door.
The butler took his card, allowing him time to eye the opulent entranceway—all pillars and shiny flooring with occasional potted plants and elegant vases. The ceiling above offered gilded plasterwork formed into an intricate circle that mimicked the circular tiling on the floor. He peered at the door that led toward the ballroom. A little smile tugged at his lips. If he took a step through there, he’d move into the corridor where he’d run into Chastity for the first time and ruined her shoes.
A woman in bright purple shades and gray hair pulled into one frizzy braid returned with the butler. The aunt, he recalled, though he could not recall her name at present.
