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“Oh, I’ll be there.” Her new confidence must have been reflected in her eyes because his own narrowed, and, right then, she made up her mind to find out exactly what hold Francesca had over him.
Ten minutes later the bellman escorted her to a lavish suite on the hotel’s concierge floor. For a moment she almost felt guilty, but the emotion quickly vanished. She knew a bribe when she saw one, and Kenny Traveler was trying to buy her off. It wouldn’t work, but perhaps he didn’t have to know that just yet.
The next morning, the ringing of the phone awakened her. She pushed her hair from her eyes and glanced at the clock as she reached for the receiver—6:18.
“Hello.”
“Hold, please, for His Grace, the Duke of Beddington.”
She sank back into the pillows. She’d wondered how long it would take him to find her. As she waited, the events of last night swept over her, and she was almost glad when a too-familiar voice interrupted.
“Emma, my darling gel. Where have you been? You’ve put me through my paces finding you.”
She recoiled from the nasal tones of Hugh Weldon Holroyd, the eleventh Duke of Beddington, and a man who resembled Henry VIII in more ways than his appearance. He also happened to own the land on which St. Gert’s was built, as well as becoming the school’s primary benefactor when his mother, the dowager duchess, had died eight months ago.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Now, none of that, my dear. You’re to address me as Hugh, although only in private, you understand.” He paused for a moment, and she envisioned him stuffing a crumpet through those fleshy lips. Not that Hugh would actually stuff anything. Even as he consumed vast quantities of food, his manners were impeccable. He’d once demolished an entire tray of her tea sandwiches without dropping so much as a single crumb. The appearance of propriety was as important to him as his title.
“Emma, Emma, we seem to have had a slight miscommunication. You were to ring me yesterday when you got in. I must tell you that it’s been quite difficult tracking you down.”
“I’m sorry,” she lied. “I was so exhausted it slipped my mind.”
“Perfectly understandable. I do hope you had a sound sleep.”
“Yes, quite.” His amiability didn’t fool her. She’d already learned that the Duke of Beddington was a man who’d do anything to get what he wanted. She thought of his two dead wives and shuddered. Not that there had been anything suspicious about either death—one had lost her life in childbirth, the other had been caught in an avalanche during a ski holiday in the Alps. But between his physical resemblance to Henry VIII, the deaths of his wives, and the two young daughters he’d tucked away at a school far more prestigious than St. Gert’s, he made her skin crawl.
“You’d told me you hired a driver, but you didn’t mention he was one of the most famous professional golfers in the world. I know how naive you are, my dear, so I’m certain it hasn’t occurred to you that this arrangement won’t do at all.”
She experienced a small stab of satisfaction. “Please don’t concern yourself, Your Grace. My friend Francesa recommended him.” She didn’t bother asking him how he’d learned that Kenny was escorting her, since Hugh Holroyd wasn’t a man to leave anything to chance. From the moment she’d announced the trip, she’d known he would hire someone to keep track of her.
“I’m sure you didn’t stop to consider how this would look. I know you enjoy Francesca’s company, but she’s in television, my dear, which makes her barely respectable. And as the future Duchess of Beddington, you need to think about such things.”
She curled her fingers tighter around the phone cord
. “Oh, I’m certain it won’t be a problem. I only have two weeks to finish my research, and I needed someone reliable. Mr. Traveler is very familiar with the area.”
“Darling, that’s not the point. We’ll be announcing our engagement as soon as you return, and it’s not at all the thing for you to be spending so much time with another man, even though he’s only your escort.”
They weren’t going to be announcing their engagement, but he didn’t know that yet. Just as he didn’t know she was going to do everything in her power to protect St. Gert’s from his blackmail. “I’m in Texas, Your Grace. None of your circle of acquaintances will ever know.”
“You forget that I have business interests all over the world. As a matter of fact, I have to go to New York just when you’ll be on your way home. I’d hoped to meet you in London as soon as you returned, but I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone that. Actually, my dear, the more I think about this, the more I believe that you need to come home right away. From the very beginning, this trip has displeased me.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. I know you don’t want me to continue as head-mistress after the engagement is announced.”
“Quite right. It would be most inappropriate.”
Only in the seventeenth century, you awful man!
“Then you see why I must stay. I’ve promised the editors of the New Historian I’ll have my paper finished for them by the first of May, and I’m sure you agree that I can’t go back on my word.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Only think how it would look if the future Duchess of Beddington didn’t meet an obligation.”
She knew she’d made her point when she heard the fretful note in his voice. “Still, I don’t fancy having you escorted by a man who’s so notorious. I know I sound like a doting husband, my dear, but I couldn’t forgive myself if I let the slightest breath of scandal attach itself to your name.”
“It won’t, Your Grace.” She narrowed her eyes at her blatant lie. If all went well, she would create a scandal just large enough to put an end to any idea of an engagement and, at the same time, ensure that St. Gert’s would remained a safe, comfortable haven for another generation of girls.
When she finally hung up, she was shaking, and she flung herself out of bed. Dealing with two horrible men in less than twenty-four hours was far worse than dealing with a classroom of unruly students. At least she hadn’t been forced to work with Hugh until recently. Up to the time of her death, the dowager duchess had been Emma’s only contact with the family, although she’d known Hugh by reputation for years because of his well-publicized talents for making huge profits by investing in cutting-edge technology. But despite his facility with high finance and modern technology, he was an old-style aristocrat, a man so puffed up with pride over his illustrious family name that adding to his consequence had become even more important to him than making money.
His two marriages had produced only female children, and, like Henry VIII, he was obsessed with the need for a male heir. Unless he had a son, his ancient title would go to a long-haired nephew who was a drummer for a rock and roll band. It was unthinkable, and only months after his second wife’s death, he’d set his staff on a search to find his next wife. She had to be well-born—that went without saying. And solid, without a hint of scandal. No flashy Sarah Fergusons to bring his name into disrepute. He would also prefer a virgin.
