Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

“ T ake care of them both for me,” said Duke Charles solemnly as Cecilia climbed into Lord and Lady Terrell’s coach beside Madeline.

Gabrielle and Ellen had travelled ahead with the luggage. All other guests had departed earlier in the day, apart from Mr. Stephens, who was remaining at Huntingdon Manor for some reason, having seen off Lady Juliette and Lord Morgan at dawn while Charles was otherwise occupied.

Letitia and Benedict scuffled together, laughing, into the only other large coach outside Huntingdon Manor. Madeline did not begrudge them their easy love, but it still made her ache. She thought of how Duke Charles had made love to her for so many hours last night and still sent her away today without any wavering. The confusion of it hurt.

Lady Terrell laughed at Charles’s request as though it were something hilarious.

“Madeline is the one who takes care of everything in our family,” she said brightly, laying a hand on her older daughter’s arm. “There is nothing she cannot manage.”

Charles only looked at Madeline with his keen green eyes.

“Still, this time, take care of her for me.”

He held out his hand, and Madeline took it wordlessly.

“We will, Your Grace,” Lord Terrell assured him jovially. “And we hope to return both ladies to you again before too much time has passed.”

Madeline withdrew her hand now and looked away, afraid both of what Charles might say and what the future might hold.

“I hope so,” Madeline thought she heard him say softly before he stepped back. “There are things that must be taken care of…”

Did she imagine those final words? Or did the Duke murmur them to himself? Madeline feared what they could mean, but there was no more time to address such questions. The Marquess of Radcliffe’s coach was pulling away down the drive, and it was time for Lord Terrell’s coach to follow. The party was over.

“My brother is the most loyal and true man alive,” Cecilia whispered to her as their carriage set off. “We will be together again soon. I know it.”

For a moment, Madeline envied Cecilia her simple naivety, but then she put an arm around her sister-in-law and kissed her cheek.

“Let us hope so,” she said and then closed her eyes.

Early one morning, four weeks later, the Duke of Huntingdon mounted the steps to Oakley House, a somewhat rundown property on the outskirts of Mayfair.

In response to the ringing of the doorbell, the front door was answered by a butler in almost as much ill-repair as the house, his look and smell indicating that his keeping of the wine cellars involved a great deal of personal sampling.

“Lord Oakley, please,” said the Duke briskly.

“His Lordship is not at home today,” announced the man pompously and then fell about in semi-drunken shock as Duke Charles barged past him into the hallway.

The Duke had had the house watched for some weeks and knew exactly who had come and gone through its doors in that time, both front and back. He knew perfectly well that Lord Oakley was at home.

“He’s in the study, I take it?” Charles said as much to himself as to the useless butler and began to throw open doors and look inside the rooms.

There were few signs of other servants beyond the man who had opened the door, and the inside of the house was in a state of shocking disrepair and uncleanliness. John Stephens had told him of Lord Oakley’s dire financial straits and the Huntingdon agents, and lawyers had sought out solid evidence of those reports, but seeing it with his own eyes was something else.

Duke Charles thanked his lucky stars again that, out of all the other senior nobles he might have picked, Lady Bentham’s brother had chosen to make his concerns about Lord Oakley known to Charles at the recent house party.

It seemed that Archibald Barton had taken in a number of prominent society figures in recent years, inveigling money from them under false pretenses or extorting it when they failed to cooperate. In tandem, his gambling debts around the ton had reached a level that could no longer be excused or ignored. Certain gentlemen from the racing and gaming world were becoming very keen to speak with Lord Oakley.

Duke Charles admired John Stephens’s ambition and intelligence. By pursuing Oakley and helping the Duke bring him to justice, Stephens would instantly find several grateful senior politicians keen to lend him professional advancement. He also seemed motivated by strong principle as much as self-promotion, despite his political bent. Still, Charles wondered what had prompted his exact aim and timing.

“Oakley,” the Duke said with satisfaction as a door finally yielded the sight of a disheveled gray-haired figure in rumpled clothing sitting behind a paper-strewn desk.

“You!” the older man exclaimed, standing, and then presumably yelling to the butler. “Melling, I told you not to let anyone in, damn you!”

“I let myself in,” Charles told him, looking contemptuously around the disorderly and dusty room. “There are matters to be settled between us once and for all, Lord Oakley. I propose that we settle our scores now.”

After initially looking afraid, a wave of greed swept over Lord Oakley’s face.

“It will cost you, especially as you sent my Juliette to America with her idiot brother. His departure was no great loss, but Juliette was worth a great deal to me, far more than ￡10,000…”

“You mistake me, Lord Oakley,” said Charles coldly. “There will be no bargaining. We will settle matters on my terms today.”

The Duke approached the desk closely and faced down the older man as he spoke.

“You seek to frighten me?” mocked Lord Oakley. “Really? We both know by now that you would not beat a helpless old man. Honor is a terrible burden to men like you, isn’t it? I know that your threats are empty. You are like an angry bear, tied at the post. All noise and no bite.”

“Threats?” Charles laughed in turn and threw down several newspapers onto the desk in front of Lord Oakley’s eyes. “I make no threats, Lord Oakley. I have never made threats — no, I only act. I wanted simply to deliver these to you with my own hand."

Lord Oakley sat down hard in his chair as though felled by an ax as he took in the headlines of the newspapers.

“Earl stole my mother’s jointure, says baronet!”

“Lord Oakley to be sued for deception in loss of ￡50,000 investment.”

“False accounting by Lord Oakley to be investigated by the House of Lords…”

“All fully evidenced, documented and witnessed,” added Charles cheerfully. “It seems that half the tradesmen in London are queuing up to add their two-pennyworth to the charges, never mind the bookmakers and debt collectors. The charges will be served on you today, and you may present yourself to the magistrate directly or wait for a summons.”

Archibald Barton was lost for words, his face working furiously but no sound coming from his mouth.

“Oh, and I wouldn’t bother trying to leave the country,” Charles continued. “Your description has been given to all the ports. I have a personal message, too, from Mrs. Marguerite Gordon.”

“I know no one of that name…” said Oakley confusedly, flicking desperately now through the newspapers as though in vain hope that it might all be some mistake.

“You knew her as Marguerite Rohan in Paris before the Revolution.”

“Marguerite Rohan…” he clearly remembered, even if he didn’t admit it.

“Mrs. Gordon wants you to know that if you fight any of these fraud cases, she will lay her own civil case against you for the dishonor you did her all those years ago in France. She and her husband are willing to trade their anonymity to see you in prison, Oakley, and I will fund their case. Believe me, debtors’ prison is your best option.”

“That little French bitch!” spat the gray-haired man although whether he was referring to Marguerite Rohan or her niece, Gabrielle, was impossible to know. Charles saw no reason to care.

The Duke stood up now and left Archibald Barton cursing the newspapers and throwing paperweights to the floor in his frustration. Charles smiled as he passed the sottish butler taking another swig directly from a decanter in the open drawing room. Melling would be a fitting sole companion for Lord Oakley’s final days of freedom.

In the carriage outside, John Stephens was waiting for the Duke.

“All done,” said Charles with a smile, resuming his seat and tapping on the roof for the driver to set off. “I believe the court officers will deliver the papers before noon.”

“Yes,” Stephens nodded with satisfaction, his intelligent hazel eyes sparkling in his deceptively good-natured face. “He will be facing the rest of his life in jail one way or another. Mrs. Gordon was as brave as her niece, I thought, in allowing for that final potential legal action.”

“Thank you again for liaising with the D’Orsay and Gordon families,” Charles said. “Your tact and understanding worked wonders.”

“You must thank Mademoiselle D’Orsay herself,” laughed Stephens. “I believe she already knew exactly what must be done and had given the rest of her family full instructions. I was merely the one to formalize her plans and give them your stamp of approval.”

“I know a woman like that,” Charles commented with a different kind of smile. “They are rare and valuable creatures, Stephens.”

The Duke turned to look thoughtfully out of the window as the carriage passed through the London streets towards Hyde Park and Lovell House in a street nearby.

“How is the Duchess, Your Grace?” Stephens asked.

“My sister writes that they are both well,” answered the Duke briefly.

He had not written to Madeline and trusted she would understand that it was wisest not to correspond. Together with John Stephens, he had spent the preceding weeks in a succession of investigations and interviews with the denizens of London’s underworld as well as its political leaders and leading businessmen. Many were not men one would introduce to one’s wife, and the whole business felt dangerous and shady.

Until the magistrate had approved all the legal documents, Charles had not allowed himself to believe his family were really safe from Lord Oakley’s depredations, but now, a weight seemed to be lifting from his shoulders. Oakley would soon be in custody and unable to hurt anyone ever again. The Duke hoped his wife would read the day’s papers and know that the nightmare was over.

“Your Grace?”

Charles realized that he had been daydreaming and turned back to Stephens with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Stephens. What did you say?”

“I only asked how Mademoiselle D’Orsay was faring.”

“Well, I believe. Cecilia writes that Miss D’Orsay is working on her winter wardrobe.”

“Far better that than Lady Terrell,” chuckled the other man, and Charles shared his laughter although he also now thought affectionately of his emotionally generous mother-in-law.

“Indeed, Miss D’Orsay’s taste is faultless in all things,” the Duke said tactfully as the carriage pulled up to the Neo-Grecian mansion that was his London home.

“Faultless,” agreed Mr. Stephens with a hint of a smile.

There was another carriage outside, and Charles immediately recognized the arms of the Marquis of Radcliffe.

“Aha, it seems my good friend Benedict has come to call. We can include him in our discussions over coffee,” he observed. “He may also have news from Lord Terrell’s household.”

John Stephens nodded approvingly and followed the Duke up the steps to Lovell House. The housekeeper, Mrs. Becking, met them at the front door and took them towards the drawing room once hats and coats had been discarded.

“Lady Radcliffe has been here for fifteen minutes, Your Grace,” she informed Charles as they walked across the hallway. “She specifically wished to wait for your return.”

“Lady Radcliffe?” Charles said with a start. “Not Lord Radcliffe? I hope there isn’t something wrong…”

He sped up towards the drawing room, pulling ahead of Mrs. Becking and John Stephens.

“I’ll wait in the library, Your Grace,” called the other man, halting where he stood. “If Lady Radcliffe has called on a family matter, you won’t want me there. Send for me when you’re ready.”

Charles barely managed a nod before rushing onwards to where his sister-in-law awaited him.

“Letitia,” the Duke said, bowing as Lady Radcliffe curtseyed before raising his worried eyes to her face. “I am glad to see you.”

Her blue eyes were steadfast, but her usually vivacious expression was otherwise impossible to read.

“I am glad to see you too, Your Grace. However, my sister would be gladder than me.”

The words were lightly spoken but carried an edge of warning to them, too.

“How is Madeline? Does she fare well?” Charles asked anxiously.

“Madeline is blooming,” Letitia answered with a smile. “But lonely, although she would not admit such a thing. Your presence has been missed, Your Grace. It has been two months, and you have not sent her a single word.”

That last statement was definitely an accusation although not an angry one.

“I could not,” he said, shaking his head. “The situation has been dangerous, and I had to keep Madeline and Cecilia safe. Lord Oakley is a vicious man, and until he was securely trapped, I could take no risks.”

“Your action to prosecute Lord Oakley is commendable, and I am sure the reasoning behind your continued silence is sound, Your Grace,” said his sister-in-law quite sweetly but in tones that let him know she did not really believe this latter point at all. “But does Madeline know of your reasons? Or does she simply think you have abandoned her?”

“Abandoned her?” repeated Charles with bewilderment, having not considered this possibility. “Madeline is an intelligent woman. She must know why I have done everything that I have done.”

“Your Grace, forgive my directness, but you are a complete fool!” snapped Letitia. “Madeline may be a very intelligent woman, but she is not a mind-reader, and you have abandoned her once before in your short marriage. I would not be surprised if she believed herself deserted again. That is usually what is behind a deed of separation, is it not? What else should she think?”

The deed of formal separation… Charles had put that from his mind over the last few weeks, caught up in the need to thoroughly prosecute and punish Archibald Barton while securing his own family’s safety. If his lawyers had done their jobs properly, the deed would have been perfectly drawn up and would now require only signatures from the Duke and Duchess of Huntingdon and a witness.

“Has Madeline signed that deed?” he asked breathlessly.

Letitia hesitated but then shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. Do you think she should?”

“No!” Charles burst out emphatically. “She must not!”

“Why, Charles? Do you think an annulment would be more appropriate? Would you rather pursue that avenue to extricate yourself from your marriage?”

What? This statement was blatantly absurd. Their marriage was a consensual union between two adults of age and thoroughly consummated. Annulment was entirely out of the question. But this wasn’t really the point Letitia was trying to make, was it? She was pointing him towards something else.

“I don’t want to extricate myself from my marriage,” the Duke told her, honestly and surely. “I never have. Madeline is my wife, and I want us to spend the rest of our lives together.”

“Then tell her that for God’s sake!” his sister-in-law said with exasperation. “Before she does sign your deed of separation and gives up on you entirely.”

Give up on him? That thought pained him like an arrow strike. Madeline must not give up on him. It would make everything else in his life pointless.

“Where is Madeline now?” asked the Duke urgently. “I must go to her.”

“At my parents’ house. You love my sister, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, I love her!” Charles shouted back. “How could anyone think otherwise?”

It was a strange relief to say this out loud or even to admit it fully to himself. He loved Madeline. It seemed now as though he always had although he knew the feeling had not been there when they stood before the altar together the previous year.

Unintimidated by his outburst, Letitia came and took both of his hands in hers, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“You must tell Madeline that, Charles. Stop assuming things. She needs to know that you love her.”

“But does Madeline love me?” he asked, another lightning thought striking his heart as well as his mind.

Letitia sighed and released his hands.

“Go and speak to your wife, Charles. That is the only conversation you need to have.”