Page 51
“Marian Vale?”
“Yes, this is Eleanor Vale’s daughter,” the Duke declared, as he read more. “She did not remain a Vale. She married a gentleman named Edmund Crowther before…she died.”
“She died so young, then,” Rosamund breathed.
“ Yes, she did,” the Duke said, “unfortunately. However, her husband, Crowther, is very much alive. He is now a very respectable timber merchant.”
Then, he reached into his breast pocket and took out the records of the bank drafts transferring money from the late Earl of Ashbourne’s accounts.
“Look at the dates closely, Lady Rosamund,” the Duke urged. “Eleanor Vale died years ago. However, the payments did not stop when she died.”
“Someone else was taking the money?” Rosamund asked, as everything began to dawn on her, as well.
“Precisely,” he said. “It sounds like blackmail. Someone has been sending letters to your father and asking for money. He was not merely supporting Eleanor Vale. He was trying to stop a ruthless blackmailer.”
“But what could the blackmailer possibly have known? What secret could my mother have that it was worth stealing from Henry to stop a blackmailer from revealing it to the public?” Rosamund wondered.
“We do not know this yet,” the Duke said, his jaw clenching
The journey home from Brighton was delayed because the rear axle of their hired carriage was making strange sounds. They were forced to stop at a country inn to avoid any accidents.
While Alice and Adrian oversaw the blacksmith’s progress, Rosamund went out the back door for some air. The orchard at the back gave off a gentle breeze, and with it, the scent of ripe apples. For a moment, she let herself enjoy the momentary reprieve. Then, she heard the crunch of heavy boots on crisp, dry leaves.
“Are you following me, Your Grace, for some bit of fresh air?” Rosamund asked, giving him a lopsided smile. “Or are you simply escaping Lord Vale’s discussion on carriage springs?”
“Perhaps a little bit of both,”the Duke said, walking side by side with her. He kept her pace, slowing his usual long strides. “Adrian can be quite particular about things and he may take time. The scenery here is definitely more agreeable.”
“Speaking of agreeable scenery,” Rosamund teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief, “you did have a bit of that with your dear friend, Lady Forsworth in the hotel at Brighton.”
“Careful, Lady Rosamund,” the Duke warned, his tone also teasing. “If you continue asking such questions regarding my past, I may begin assuming you have a personal interest in my affairs.”
“Oh no,” Rosamund laughed. “I have a purely investigative interest.”
“How then is your investigative interest focused on widows of my acquaintance?” the Duke asked. “And perhaps card games I have participated in.”
Rosamund found herself laughing. The sound was so clear, free, and genuine, she could not believe that it came from her.
They walked a little more, appreciating the scenery. Then, he changed the subject by asking, ‘Do you intend to marry someday, Lady Rosamund?”
The shift in subject and tone caught her off guard. “I - I suppose I never had a grand, explicit plan, Your Grace. I assumed I would eventually marry if I meet someone I could trust.”
“Trust,” the Duke murmured, mulling the meaning of the word perhaps. “Do you trust me, Lady Rosamund?”
She did not immediately reply. She watched him curiously, wondering why he was asking such questions. It was tempting not to reply, but his grey eyes held such raw vulnerability.
“More than I did,” she admitted.
“I suppose I do deserve such a qualification,” he murmured.
Rosamund tilted her head and said, “I am beginning to believe you deserve more than I thought.”
Something shifted in the air. It made her breathless. It made her want to do things that perhaps she should not be doing, such as being too open.
The Duke was mere inches from her, but she never felt any threat in is presence and stance. What she felt was longing.
“I should probably make some charming remark at this very moment,” the Duke said.
“That would certainly be more familiar,” Rosamund commented, her heart racing in her chest.
