Never Deceive a Duke Read online

  The woman’s face fell like soft dough. “But she’s never had a good man, Your Grace.” Her voice had gone quiet now. “Wouldn’t know one from a dead trout, I daresay. Me, I had a good husband. The kind a woman don’t have but once—and I’ll never have another. But she can’t make that choice. She can’t make any choice, she’s so locked up with fear inside.”

  Gareth did not wish to feel one iota of sympathy for Antonia—and he very much suspected he knew the cause of her tears. It was shame, and something a good deal worse—outright bigotry. He thrust his finger at the door. “Get out, madam,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I cannot fire you, but I can bloody well have you thrown out of my house.”

  “Aye, that you can do,” she agreed. “But if I go, she’ll go, for she don’t know what else to do, sir. And I think you don’t want that—do you? No, don’t answer me. Time will tell it, one way or t’other.”

  Gareth balled his fists at his sides. Damn her. Damn her. He’d never had an employee he couldn’t dismiss on the spot—and he’d cheerfully let a few go, too. But he really didn’t know if the insolent hag was paid out of the duchess’s funds or his. Worse, she was right on the second point, too, damn her to hell.

  “Get out.” His voice was quiet with fury. “Just get out, Waters, and never let me lay eyes on you again.”

  With one last cutting glance, the woman left.

  Antonia dragged herself up off the bed and dashed a hand beneath her eyes. For once Nellie had surprised her by doing as she’d asked and left her alone with her misery. At last Antonia had cried herself out. Her sobs had stilled, and now she was merely sniveling. That, apparently, was how she measured progress nowadays.

  Dear God, what had she been thinking to lie to the duke? And she had lied; both of them had known it. But after years of being told what she should think and how she should feel, and how so much of what she believed and felt was just the result of her overwrought imagination, it had seemed so easy to simply…well, to imagine nothing had happened. To pretend that she had not made a moon-calf fool of herself, throwing herself at a man she did not know. A man who, in no small part, held her future in his hands.

  In truth, there was much she did not remember, though it happened far less often than it once had. Certainly she did not remember getting out of bed, or going up onto the rampart in the rain. Indeed, she was not sure how she’d managed to get the heavy wooden door open, much less end up in the duke’s arms. Dr. Osborne called it sleepwalking, but most doctors had been less charitable.

  The physician whose services her father had retained had termed it acute female hysteria. Antonia had been kept under lock and key in his isolated country house in the months after her first husband, Eric, had had his accident; a house so deep in the vales that no one heard her screams. The doctor’s treatment had consisted of a regimen of ice baths, physical restraints, purges, and druginduced stupors, most of which had been administered by a brutal staff. One soon learned not to cry or to show distress of any sort. One learned to be numb.

  Antonia’s reward for her good behavior had been the Duke of Warneham, who had needed another pretty young wife—this time one who’d been proven to be fertile. But Antonia had possessed yet another desirable trait: she’d come unencumbered by another man’s children. A history of madness, Warneham had apparently decided, had been no great obstacle. His new duchess had needed to do only one thing with competence. Otherwise, she could have locked herself in the chapel to pray and to mourn until hell froze over.

  Antonia set her palms against her feverish cheeks. What had she been thinking? To jeopardize this, the only sanctuary she had ever known? Warneham had been a selfish, soulless man; a man obsessed by the notion of revenge, but he had given her this. A place of peace. A home where, though the servants might whisper behind her back, they at least showed a modicum of respect to her face. And while she had not wanted his children, she would have borne them had God willed it.

  But God had not willed it. Now the thing which her husband had most dreaded had happened. Warneham had spent much of his life wishing Gabriel Ventnor to the devil. Perhaps he had done a good deal more than wish. But it had all been for naught. The new duke was here, and Antonia had made the most humiliating mistake imaginable, all for a few moments of comfort. No, of pleasure. Exquisite, tormenting pleasure. There had been, just as he had said, an undeniable passion between them—a passion which was now all the more unbearable to recall.

  Why, oh why could he not have played along and simply pretended that it had never happened? She had offered them both a way out—she was mad; surely he knew?—but the duke had refused it. Now she looked worse than mad. She looked like a liar. A lonely, desperate liar. And he had looked angry beyond words, like an avenging angel indeed. He would almost certainly send her away now. He might even begin to wonder if she had killed Warneham. That was a terrifying thought. Antonia set a hand beneath her breasts and dragged in a ragged, unsteady breath.

  No. She would not cry again. She had got herself into this mess, so now she must either get herself out of it again or bear the duke’s punishment with all the grace she could muster.

  Just then, Nellie burst back into the room. “Well, lovie, I’ve done it,” she declared, going to the tall mahogany wardrobe and throwing it open. “I hope we don’t have to pack up tonight.”

  “What?” Antonia rose from the edge of the bed. “Lud, Nellie. What have you done?”

  “Gave that man the razor’s edge of my tongue,” she declared, eyeing Antonia’s heaviest cloak, as if sizing it up for the trunks. “He tried to sack me, o’course. But I told him he couldn’t.”

  “Oh, Nellie.” Antonia sank back down onto the mattress. “Oh, this is very bad indeed.”

  Nellie must have heard the odd edge in Antonia’s voice, for she came at once to the bed. “There, now, my lady,” she said, taking Antonia’s hand. “We were to leave anyways, weren’t we?”

  Antonia found herself biting back tears again. What a watering-pot she was! “Oh, Nellie, I don’t think you understand.”

  “Understand what, ma’am?”

  “I did something awful, Nellie,” she whispered. “I am so ashamed.”

  “Ashamed, my lady?” Nellie gently patted her hand. “You’ve never done a thing in your life to be ashamed of.”

  “This is different.”

  Nellie settled herself on the edge of the bed. Lips pursed, she let her gaze drift over Antonia’s face. “Dearie me,” she finally said. “I thought something was amiss last night.”

  Antonia hung her head.

  “Aye, there was a look about you, lovie, that worried me,” she said softly. “So t’was something to do with him, then? Well, he’s handsome enough, Lord knows. And you have been alone an awful long time. Did he try to seduce you?”

  “No, I—I just made a mistake,” Antonia confessed. “I used very poor judgment.”

  “Aye, and so did I, perhaps,” acknowledged Nellie. “So, what’s the worst he can do now? Put us up at the White Lion?”

  “I think you underestimate him, Nellie,” said Antonia warily. “He is a hard man, I fear. I’m not sure he will bother with the niceties.”

  Nellie bit her lip a moment. “Aye, you’re right,” she finally admitted. “You’re a lady born and bred, but what will that mean to him? They do say Jews are hardhearted folk—and clutch-fisted, too.”

  “Nellie!”

  “What?”

  “How many Jews are you acquainted with?”

  Nellie considered this. “Well, none as I know of.”

  “That’s like saying all Irish are lazy, and all Scots are cheap!”

  Nellie lifted one shoulder. “Well, Scots are cheap,” she countered. “If you don’t believe it, just ask one. Brag about it, they do.”

  “Perhaps some are proud of being thrifty,” Antonia conceded. “But don’t say any of it ever again in my hearing, do you understand? Perhaps the new duke is a Jew—I cannot say—but we are still living under his roof.”<
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  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Antonia let her shoulders sag. “Oh, Nellie!” she said quietly. “What am I to do?”

  The maid patted her on the knee. “Just hold your head up, ma’am, like the lady you are,” she said. “Let him do his worst. You are the daughter of an earl, and the widow of a baron and a duke. You are ten times better bred than he can ever hope to be.”

  “Oh, Nellie, it’s just not that simple,” whispered Antonia. “Nothing is simple anymore—and I am afraid it never will be, ever again.”

  Nellie squeezed her hand again. But she said no more. The truth was painfully apparent, and there really was nothing more to be said.

  Chapter Seven

  G abriel watched as his grandmother’s careful fingers smoothed the wrinkles from the freshly embroidered pillow slips. “Pretty, Bubbe,” he said. “Who are they for?”

  “Malka Weiss.” His grandmother stood back to admire her handiwork. “Tomorrow, Gabriel, on the way to synagogue, I take them to her. It is Malka’s bat mitzvah.”

  Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “What is that, Bubbe?”

  “It means she is a woman now,” said his grandmother. “Malka may give testimony, and even marry if she—”

  “Marry!” said Gabriel. “Old buck-toothed Malka?”

  “Shush, tatellah,” his grandmother chided. “Tomorrow is a special day. Her mother will bake poppy-seed cakes and we will kiss Malka, and give her little gifts.”

  Gabriel scrubbed one scuffed shoe against the other. “Bubbe,” he said hesitantly, “can I go to synagogue, too?”

  His grandmother smiled a little sadly. “No, Gabriel.”

  “But why?”

  His grandmother hesitated. “You cannot,” she finally said.

  “It is because I am not one of you!” he said petulantly. “Why don’t you just say it, Bubbe? I am not a real Jew.”

  “Gabriel, shush!” His grandmother came down on one knee and gave his shoulders a little shake. “You are a real Jew!” she whispered. “Do you hear me? Being a Jew is more than a synagogue! You are as much a Jew as I am, tatellah—but you will someday live in a world where one must never speak of it carelessly. Do you understand me? Do you?”

  Halfway along the road which led down to the village of Lower Addington, Gareth reined his mount around to a halt. Shifting his hat, he looked up at the edifice of Selsdon, its impressive stone façade aglow with a pure, almost sumptuous afternoon light. From this angle he could still see the south bastion hanging dramatically out above the cliffs, and to the north, the impressive stable block and estate shops, which together were larger than the village itself. The part of Selsdon beyond his view was just as grand, and stretched further still. He still could not fathom how all this had come to be his. But it was his—and he wondered vaguely if ever he would see a moment’s peace within its walls.

  A man makes his own peace, his grandfather had been fond of saying. And there was a certain amount of truth in that. Gareth had spent the last three days trying to come to terms with what had happened between him and Antonia, and trying to accept that he might never understand it. Since their argument, they had not seen one another save at dinner, which they suffered through in stoic restraint, treating one another like—well, like the perfect strangers they were.

  Abruptly, Gareth slapped his hat back on his head and spun the fine, long-legged bay around again. He very much hoped the doctor was in when he reached the village. Seeing Osborne would be just one small step, perhaps, toward making his own peace. Gareth was determined to discover if there was any medical explanation for Antonia’s alleged—and very selective—spate of amnesia, though precisely how he meant to glean this was not yet clear to him.

  The doctor’s house lay at the end of the road, about a quarter-mile beyond the village proper. It was a lovely half-timbered manor with a wide, welcoming door topped by a rambling vine, which was beginning to show perhaps a hint of burnished red. Gareth tethered his mount to the gatepost, then went up the stairs to ring the bell. A housemaid dressed in starched black and white bobbed, awestruck, and showed him at once into a sunny front parlor. Five minutes later, Dr. Osborne entered, his forehead creased with worry.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed perfunctorily. “What is wrong?”

  Gareth stood. “Wrong?” he said. “Nothing, I trust. Why?”

  Osborne waved him back into his chair. “Lord, I don’t know,” he said wearily. “I suppose I’ve come to expect bad news when anyone from Selsdon turns up unexpectedly.”

  He was speaking of Warneham’s death, no doubt. Gareth tried to smile. “No, we are fresh out of tragedies today,” he said. “I wished merely to ask you a few questions about the people at Selsdon.”

  “The people?” Osborne looked at him coolly as he seated himself opposite Gareth. “The staff, do you mean?”

  “Yes, the staff,” Gareth agreed. “Everyone, actually. You are the only doctor hereabouts, are you not?”

  “I am,” Osborne agreed. “Was there anyone you were particularly concerned about?”

  Gareth propped his elbows on the chair arms and leaned forward. “I am concerned for all of them,” he said. “They are a responsibility I have inherited, whether I like it or not. But yes, some concern me more than others. Mrs. Musbury, for example.”

  “Ah, yes.” The doctor steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “A hardworking woman, Mrs. Musbury. But she always has a chronic cough this time of year.”

  “The duchess tells me Mrs. Musbury has a weak chest.”

  The doctor gave an amiable shrug. “Oh, I doubt it,” he responded. “This is an annual ritual. The cough comes on in August and vanishes after our first hard frost. By Advent, she’s fit as a fiddle.”

  “So the duchess has overstated the matter?”

  The doctor rolled his shoulders, as if his coat were too tight. “The duchess has a kind heart,” he finally said. “And she has not known Mrs. Musbury nearly so long as I have.”

  Gareth held his gaze assessingly for a moment. “The duchess seems unwell herself at times,” he remarked. “I could not help but notice your concern for her last Monday evening.”

  Osborne looked suddenly distant. “It is true that the duchess is not entirely well,” he answered. “She is a fragile, rather restless soul. And sometimes, she is…well, out of touch with her surroundings.”

  “She daydreams? She is fanciful?”

  Again, the doctor shook his head. “It is more than that,” he reluctantly admitted. “She sleepwalks, too. Nellie, her maid, must be constantly on guard. On occasion, the duchess must be sedated. Her case is most complex—a form of hysteria, to be honest.”

  Again, Gareth leaned forward in his chair. He did not like to probe in this direction, and yet he seemed unable to stop himself. “Dr. Osborne, I must ask you something in the strictest confidence,” he said quietly. “Something which might sound strange.”

  The doctor smiled a little grimly. “Few questions shock a doctor, Your Grace,” he said. “But let’s ring for tea first, shall we? A little fortification might be in order.”

  He got up at once and did so. They made small talk about the weather until the black-garbed housemaid returned with a broad, ornate tea tray as fine as any at Selsdon. She followed with a plate of thin sandwiches. Gareth’s stomach growled at the sight, and it was only then that he realized that he had once again forgotten to eat luncheon—the third time in as many days.

  The doctor poured, then offered the plate of sandwiches. “Well, I can put it off no longer, can I?” he said. “You wished to ask me something about the duchess, I collect.”

  Gareth paused to carefully consider his words. “Yes, something of a personal nature, I’m afraid.”

  Osborne looked resigned. “I thought as much,” he said. “Go on.”

  “What I wish to know is”—Gareth considered how to pose the question—“Well, whether the duchess might do something and…and not be aware of what she was doing? Could she later simply not remember it?�
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  Dr. Osborne blanched. “Oh, dear,” he murmured. “Back to that, are we?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Osborne shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I do wish those rumors would die down,” he admitted. “As her friend and her physician, I have never believed them.”

  Rumors? Clearly, they were speaking at cross-purposes, but Gareth was curious. “Precisely why did you not believe them, Doctor?” he probed.

  Osborne’s gaze grew distant. “In my opinion,” the doctor finally said, “the duchess does not possess the ruthlessness necessary for such a violent act—not even when she is in one of her disturbed states.”

  “A violent act?” The doctor was referring to Warneham’s death, then. “I think you’d best tell me everything you know, Dr. Osborne.”

  “About Warneham and…and all the gossip?” A look of sadness passed over the doctor’s face.

  Gareth hesitated. It seemed Antonia had been right about the rumors. This was his chance to learn more, perhaps. “I have a right to know, have I not?”

  “It might be best, Your Grace, if you spoke to John Laudrey, the local justice of the peace.”

  “No, I wish to hear from you,” Gareth pressed. “You were often in the house, were you not?”

  Osborne lifted one shoulder. “I was the duke’s personal physician for some years,” he admitted. “We often played chess together. I dined at Selsdon at least once a week. Yes, I was there frequently.”

  “So, tell me what happened,” Gareth pressed.

  “In my opinion, Warneham died of potassium nitrate poisoning,” said the doctor.

  “At whose hand?” Gareth demanded.

  Osborne opened both hands expansively. “Well…mine, perhaps.”

  “Yours?”

  “I was prescribing it.” Fleetingly, the doctor looked grief-stricken. “For Warneham’s asthma. The night of his death, Warneham had some guests down from London, which was unusual. The gentlemen played billiards late into the night—and they smoked, of course. I had persuaded Warneham to give up the habit, but his friends—”