He’d been pursuing her, carefully if doggedly, for over a week. Yesterday being Sunday, as per Mary’s instructions, he’d taken Stacie for a drive through the park in the afternoon. According to Mary, that should have been their only engagement for the day, but Stacie had suggested he dine with her and Ernestine that evening—a quiet, private dinner with just the three of them for company. Inwardly, he’d leapt at the chance; outwardly, he’d concealed his eagerness and accepted the invitation and had passed a pleasant evening with the two ladies. At their urging, he’d told them of his travels. Stacie’s eyes had lit when he’d described the great opera houses of the Continent, and she’d later admitted that visiting such places in Vienna, Strasbourg, Venice, Milan, and Rome was an abiding dream.

He’d taken due note, then—to his own considerable surprise—had suggested that he repay the ladies’ generosity by playing for them. Stacie and Ernestine had eagerly accepted; Stacie had opened the doors between the drawing room and music room, and while Ernestine had remained in her armchair in the drawing room, listening to the gentle sonata he chose to play, Stacie had come and leaned against the piano and listened; in reality, he’d played for her.

Never before had he voluntarily offered to play for a lady. Never before had he watched a lady’s face as he played—and felt such a connection he’d almost been afraid.

That moment still lived in his mind.

He hadn’t previously spent much if any time thinking about marriage; he had imagined waiting until he was closer to forty before biting the bullet and engaging with the marriage mart and, through a tedious process, acquiring a suitable bride.

Then Stacie had pushed her way into his life and caught, first, his attention, and then, his eye.

And then had come that moment when they’d fallen on the chaise, and his physical, visceral reaction to her had been stunningly intense.

He should have paid more attention to that—to what such a powerful reaction presaged—but in the circumstances, seizing the opportunity and securing Stacie as his bride had seemed the easiest w

ay forward. No dealing with the marriage mart, and a lady with whom he shared more than he’d imagined possible.

In hindsight, he should also have been wary of that feeling of taking the easy way out; Fate had a habit of presenting her lures as attractively simple and straightforward.

There was, he now knew, nothing simple and straightforward about securing Stacie as his bride.

And of course, in drawing her inch by inch closer to him, he’d inevitably drawn closer to her, leaving him determined to succeed—for the truly simple reason that there was no longer any alternative, at least none acceptable to him.

He studied that conclusion for several minutes, then blew out a breath. “So—what’s my next step?”

He was debating his options when Fortingale tapped and entered.

“Mr. Camber is here to see you, my lord.”

Frederick sat up. “Excellent. Show him in.”

Camber duly appeared; Frederick waved him to an armchair before the desk.

The inquiry agent came forward, bowed, and sat. As soon as the door clicked shut, Camber said, “Regarding your latest commission, my lord, I’ve managed to compile a fairly detailed report.”

Frederick sat back and gestured for Camber to continue.

“I tracked down a gentleman who, for the last five or so years of her life, was known to be the late marchioness’s close confidante—he was referred to by many as her cicisbeo and was reputed to know all her secrets.”

Frederick wondered if Ryder and Rand knew of the man’s existence. “His name?”

“The Honorable Mr. Claude Potherby, my lord. He currently lives a lonely life in a tiny village outside Leeds. When I called, Potherby was quite happy to talk to me—I got the impression he rarely has company and welcomed even mine.”

“I see.” Frederick made a mental note to tell Ryder and Rand of Potherby. If they’d bought the man’s silence, as Frederick would have assuredly done had he been in their shoes, then Potherby seemed to have forgotten. Or perhaps they’d forgotten Potherby? In either case, they needed to know. “I assume Potherby was a font of information?”

Camber nodded soberly. “He was, indeed, my lord.” Camber paused, then said, “It was almost as if being able to speak about the subject was…well, cathartic. I got the impression he hadn’t been asked about the late marchioness by anyone, and so all he knew was bottled up in his head. If I was asked to swear to it, I’d say he spoke honestly—he was relieved to be able to let it all out.”

“And what did he say with regard to my particular interest?”

“First, that the daughter is the spitting image of her mother, but very different in character. It seems the late marchioness was a particularly nasty sort, a past master at manipulation and, specifically, at using it to cause her husband pain of the emotional sort. According to Potherby—who apparently had known the late marchioness from childhood—she had always been cruel, but she was very beautiful and also very clever at hiding her true colors. In his words, people saw the beauty and not the rotten core. He admitted to being devoted to her in his way, but he wasn’t blind to her faults. Apparently, while her husband was alive, he was her principal target, but she was always very ready to wield her manipulative skills to hurt others. Potherby said that, in his view, she gloried in causing others pain.”

Camber paused to draw breath. “But to pass on to the late marchioness’s children, apparently, she possessed no maternal feelings for any of them but viewed them as her chattels to eventually be sold on the marriage mart. Potherby insisted that was her principal focus in the years prior to her death—how to make the most by essentially selling her children in marriage.”

Camber fought to hide his disgust; Frederick hoped he himself was more successful.

“Anyway,” Camber went on, “it seems one good thing about her having that aim is that she took great care of her children’s reputations and especially that of the daughter. However, Potherby believes that the young lady inherited her mother’s talent for manipulating people, along with her looks. Quite what that actually means about the daughter, he swore he couldn’t say, but he was certain the girl was appalled by her mother’s vicious behavior and, he suspects, would have done something to counter it if she’d been able. As it was, with the late marchioness keeping her daughter very close, the girl was forced to witness many acts of outright cruelty perpetrated by her mother, both on her father and on others.”

Frederick inwardly swore.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens The Cavanaughs Romance
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