Page 6 of Dukes All Night Long

T hey awaited them in the drawing room. The portrait had been brought down and was displayed on an easel.

Standing beside it in the very same gown that she had worn for her wedding and that her own sister had stripped from what she must have assumed was her lifeless body, Verity waited with a poise that was entirely feigned.

The idea of facing her sister was simply too much.

Her spine was straight, her hands loosely clasped before her, but her breath felt tight in her chest, her skin too warm beneath the heavy velvet, and the fire crackling in the grate did nothing to settle her nerves.

Throughout their lives, Vanessa had been jealous.

If Verity had received a doll in a pink dress and she’d received one in blue, there was significance to it in Vanessa’s mind.

The pink was superior and therefore given to the superior sister.

Everything from food portions to the number of times a person smiled at them was calculated, tallied, weighed, and measured.

It had been exhausting. It was why, once Vanessa had married Mr. Abelard, that Verity had finally felt free to seek a match of her own.

But having made a match with someone who had the title, prestige, and position that Colin did—well, she should have expected that Vanessa would react accordingly.

But a tantrum was a far cry from attempted murder.

From sororicide. The word itself made her stomach twist. That her own sister had harbored such malice, such hatred, was a truth she had not been prepared to face.

The doors to the drawing room opened and Vanessa breezed in, Thomas Abelard in her wake, as per usual. She looked at Verity and sneered. She did not falter, not for a moment, nor did she glance at the portrait beside her sister. She strode into the room as if she were the mistress of the house.

“What nerve you have to simply waltz in as if you have the right to do so, having abandoned your entire family!”

“It isn’t abandonment, Vanessa,” Verity replied coolly, “when one doesn’t even know one has family.

I’m afraid that when I washed up on the banks of the Thames, bleeding and nearly frozen to death, I had no notion of anything or anyone looking for me.

I had no memory, you see.” As rehearsed, she pushed her hair back just enough to show the faint scar at her hairline.

Her fingers trembled only slightly, and she hoped Vanessa would not notice.

“The banks of the Thames? And what were you doing in such a wretched place?” she snapped.

“Hold your tongue, Mrs. Abelard,” Colin said firmly.

“Our best guess at this point, and it is a guess, is that Verity was abducted. Likely for ransom. But something must have gone wrong. Perhaps through her own resourcefulness and wit she managed to escape the fiends, but they will be caught. Mark my words. I will not rest until it is so.” His voice was clipped and precise, but there was steel beneath it—controlled fury simmering just beneath the surface.

Had Verity not been watching her sister’s reaction so closely, she might have missed the way her pallor shifted slightly.

But she hadn’t blanched with fear, though that was there too.

Anger had brought some of the pink back into her cheeks.

Her lips thinned, and her eyes darted toward Thomas, as though silently willing him to remain silent.

“You do not seem happy to have me returned to you, sister,” she noted. “I would have thought that you might have greater appreciation for family given how limited ours remains.”

“Of course, I’m happy to have you returned,” Vanessa said, a false tight smile playing about her lips.

“How could I not be? Especially now that I know it wasn’t your own capricious nature that took you away from us but the wickedness of others.

I am ever so relieved to have you back safely and relatively unharmed. ”

“And I am very glad to be returned to my loving husband and our home,” Verity said.

She acknowledged to herself that they were likely spreading it on a bit thick, but no one loved melodrama more than her sister.

“The longer I am here, the more I remember. Every minute brings a new discovery… or rediscovery, I suppose. I daresay before long, it will all have come back to me.” She let her gaze linger on Vanessa as she said it, watching carefully.

“And is that what this is all about? Your wedding gown? The portrait?”

Verity nodded. “Most certainly. It’s the strangest thing. I remember choosing this dress, fabric selection, dress fittings… all of it. And yet I cannot recall a single moment of sitting for this portrait.” Her tone was light, but the implication was not.

“Mr. Abelard, would you care for a drink? I think you are not a well traveler, sir. You look quite peaked,” Colin noted. There was a slight edge to his voice, subtle but unmistakable.

Vanessa looked panicked at the notion of weak-willed Thomas going off alone with Colin, so Verity played her part.

“Oh, that sounds lovely. You can talk about hunting and guns and all the things men love while Vanessa and I catch up. I feel quite lost, honestly. I’m completely ignorant of all the latest scandals.

” She smiled sweetly, adding a deliberate note of cheer to her voice, one she knew would grate on Vanessa’s nerves.

When they had exited the room, Vanessa immediately let her facade drop.

“What’s this really all about? And please do not bother with this nonsense of lost memories! What have you really been doing for the last year?”

“Year? It was eight months ago that I vanished. Wasn’t it?” Verity pointed out. “But we both know the truth about that. Don’t we, Vanessa? Why did you do it? What possible reason could you have had to do something so horrible?”

“Because I detest you,” Vanessa said simply, not even bothering to deny the accusation.

“Because all of my life I’ve had to listen to how perfect you are.

Be nice like Verity, be polite and sweet like Verity, be kind like Verity.

Can’t you behave like Verity? You were always prettier, always better liked, always held up to me as some sort of paragon I should aspire to be like…

and every time someone said it, I grew to hate you more.

” Her voice was rising, and the venom in it was unmistakable.

“Enough to kill me?”

“I’d have done so years ago if I’d thought I’d have a way to get away with it. But this… taking up your position as duchess and making your cow-eyed husband despise you? That was almost better than shooting you!”

Those harshly shouted words were confession enough.

The small, concealed panel in the door that carefully hid the comings and goings of servants opened.

But it wasn’t a maid waiting on the other side.

It was the magistrate. He stepped into the room with the silent authority of a man long accustomed to seeing justice take uncomfortable forms.

Only a moment later, the door to the drawing room opened and Colin stepped inside, a weeping Mr. Abelard at his side.

“Shall I take her to the jail, Your Grace?” the magistrate asked.

“We’ve had scandal enough, I think,” Colin replied. “If they can be reasonable, we might reach another solution. If not… well, our reputations can hardly be worse, can they?”

“I’m not going to prison. I’m not going to swing or be committed to an asylum either,” Vanessa snapped. Her composure was gone, her hairline damp with sweat, her voice brittle with desperation.

“America. A reasonable amount of money that Mr. Abelard can set up his own business, and you can be part of respectable if not exalted society… with one condition,” Colin stated. “You never return to England.”

It was beyond generous. Stunned that he would be so lenient, so merciful after everything, Verity waited for her sister to refuse the kindness. It was quite like Vanessa to cut off her nose to spite her face.

But Mr. Abelard appeared to have the good sense to seize their stroke of fortune.

“We shall happily go to America. Far, far from here.”

Vanessa whirled on him. “Thomas!”

“Hush!” he snapped at her. “We are in this predicament because your petty jealousy has blinded you to reason. We will get no better offer. If we stay here, Vanessa, we are ruined.”

The magistrate stepped forward then. “My men and I will see them to a ship, Your Grace. Get ’em settled on board nice and secure like.”

Colin withdrew a letter from his pocket and passed it to the magistrate along with a purse filled with coins.

“Instructions for a man named Ian Denholm. He’s in Boston and will see to it that accounts are set up for them… and the funds to cover their travel expenses.” And with that, his hands—and hers—were washed of them. Forever, if they were so fortunate.