Page 7 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Three

“ I assume you all know why I have summoned you here,” Charles said sternly.

The footmen lined up in a row, their coats pristine and crisp, copper colored.

Charles stood before them in the parlor of his townhouse, his eyes sweeping the line of footmen, the steward, Robert Cunningham, and his housekeeper, Mrs. Andrews.

Robert looked nervous, as did some of the footmen, but Mrs. Andrews kept her chin high. Not in defiance, but in business. She understood the severity of the situation.

“All I would like to know,” Charles said quietly, “is how the portrait was moved. I explicitly said that the portrait was not to be touched. It was a personal one, and now I have been humiliated before the ton. Furthermore, the lady in the portrait has been humiliated before the ton.”

He had spoken nothing of the woman he had dubbed Aphrodite , the lady who had so much to say about his artwork. Nobody knew that he was the infamous Christian Dawson, yet nobody knew either that Charles Thorne himself painted.

Nobody except Levi and the staff.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” Robert offered. “I will get to the bottom of it immediately and make sure the issue is resolved. It is an incredible invasion of both parties’ privacy, and I am terribly ashamed it has happened under my watch. Your Grace, I am so?—”

“I do not need apologies.” Charles waved him off. “I need answers. I need an explanation.”

“I will dismiss who did this,” Robert swore.

Charles’s eyes cut to the footmen to see who reacted to the threat.

They all looked equally nervous, so that was no indicator.

He nodded once at Robert and then redirected his attention to the footmen. “Whoever did this must speak. Now.”

Framed against the sun-drenched window, the footmen’s faces only showed terror. Either they were all covering up for one, or none of them had anything to do with it, but didn’t want to look defiant.

“I will not take silence,” Charles warned, raising an eyebrow. How he kept his composure when he had been falling apart all day, he did not know. “Somebody ought to talk.”

Nobody spoke up, and his frustration grew, thinking of the moment everybody had gasped.

He started pacing the room, closing his eyes while his back was turned to them.

All the years he had spent restoring the Branmere name, only to be the one to bring shame and laughter upon it.

For people had laughed, more of a nervous kind, the sort where they did not know what to do with what they had seen.

But Charles had not laughed. He had been humiliated and furious.

“I am not leaving this parlor— nobody is leaving this parlor—until the matter is resolved and the culprit uncovered.”

Again, only silence greeted him. Tamping down his frustration, he adjusted his shirt sleeves and regarded his servants once more.

“If nobody speaks up, then you will all face the consequences,” he warned, thinking it more likely that they were protecting one man than all being in on it. “I do hope you have all enjoyed the extra two weeks off during the off-season months, for it will not continue if nobody fesses up.”

Strangled groans rippled through the footmen.

“That goes for all the servants. If you do not wish your colleagues to carry the burden, then I suggest one of you steps forward. Somebody in this room has to know something. If that is not the case, then I clearly do not have the attentive servants I thought I had.”

He made sure to avoid looking at Mrs. Andrews or Robert, for he guessed they truly had been none the wiser. Only recently, he had hired more footmen, and he suspected one of them had something to do with it.

“The consequences will only get worse the longer you remain silent.”

For a moment, he thought he would not be heeded.

The old grandfather clock in the corner ticked away, and he gritted his teeth against the tick, tick, tick , as if he had to be aware of how much time he wasted.

Holding onto the last threads of his patience, Charles merely let his gaze travel over each of the footmen.

But then one of them shifted. One of the recent hires stepped forward, bowing his head. Sweat beaded on his forehead more than the others, and a deep flush spread across his face.

“I-I—Your Grace. I did—” He exhaled raggedly, his hands trembling at his sides. “I did it. It—It was me.”

Charles stiffened and cocked his head. Slowly, he approached him.

“Why did you not step forward sooner?” he asked. “Do you not understand the severity of what has happened?”

The footman nodded frantically. He gulped noisily, and the other footmen winced, as if waiting for their own punishment.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing around. “I-I am conflicted, Your Grace, for I do not want to tattle,” he said.

Charles barked a laugh. “Lying to a duke is better, then?”

“No, Your Grace,” the footman said quickly. “No, of course not. It’s more that I risk… I risk getting somebody into trouble who… who I should not.”

“Who?” Charles demanded. “If you have an accomplice, say their name, and they will be punished severely.”

The footman’s face turned bone white, and ever so quietly, he admitted, “Lady… Lady Phoebe told me that the painting was supposed to go in the salon.”

Charles started at the mention of his daughter, but quickly straightened his back.

“I-I did not question it. I didn’t know to… to question. She was incredibly persistent, Your Grace.”

Charles’s anger burned hotter, but he kept himself in check.

“I didn’t think you would believe me, Your Grace,” the footman continued. “Nor do I want to get Lady Phoebe into trouble if she—” He tugged at his collar. “If she had played another prank.”

Charles was torn between wanting to accuse the footman of accusing his daughter prematurely and being impressed by his accurate guess. He only stared at the young man, gathering his thoughts before he nodded once.

The footman released a shaky, terrified breath.

“Thank you,” Charles said curtly. “Step back.” The footman did. “I will deduct a week’s holiday from your off-season break.”

Ashamed, the footman nodded, accepting his punishment. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Charles moved back, addressing the rest of his staff. “Furthermore, if Lady Phoebe ever tells you to do something you are uncertain about, then seek either me, Mr. Cunningham, or Mrs. Andrews. Yes, my daughter is known for her pranks, but they can be avoided with the right precautions.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He tamped down his annoyance; his daughter had played a prank yet again, causing more devastation than she ever had. Still, Phoebe would not have known what she was doing.

Or maybe she did, and that makes it worse .

He quickly dismissed the thought. He would not accuse her without knowing the full story.

Stepping back further, he eyed his servants narrowly.

“Dismissed,” he muttered.

Then, he strode out of the parlor and headed right to Phoebe’s room.

He knocked twice on the door and pushed it open to find her sitting on the window seat, looking out at the front courtyard.

She turned to him, staring for a moment before looking away.

Sometimes he saw so much of himself in Phoebe that it ached; she could be solemn at times, and mischievous just as often.

“Phoebe.” He made sure to keep his voice low and even.

“Papa,” she responded.

Finally, he saw that wicked smile on her face, the one he loved, even if he knew it spelled trouble.

“How are you today?”

So, this is how she will play it.

He knew from experience that Phoebe likely already knew about him questioning his staff. His daughter had a crafty way of overhearing things he thought were safe from her young ears.

“I am troubled,” he said carefully. “How are you?”

“I am fine. Bored . But what can I expect when I am locked in my tower?”

“Tower,” he mused, smiling. “Has Miss Ternan been reading fairytales to you again?”

Phoebe nodded.

“Is that how you feel? That you are locked in here, waiting to be saved?”

“I do not need to be saved,” she mumbled. “I just need to get out.”

“I know,” Charles murmured.

He took a step closer to her.

Sometimes, his daughter behaved like a spooked animal. The closer he got, the quicker she would bolt if he left a door open behind him.

He never closed her chamber door behind him. It seemed too much, too invasive of her space.

Yet he saw her eyes flick to the open door.

“You must be upset with me,” he added.

Hoping she would admit out of guilt what she had done, he dared to test his questioning.

With Phoebe, it was easier to keep his temper in check, for she regarded him with those big, dark blue eyes—the same as his—and he questioned…

Who was he to scold a little girl who had lost so much?

“No, Papa,” she said, her voice too sweet, too innocent, for the mischievous girl she was. “Not at all. I understand perfectly why I am in here.”

That gave him pause.

She never conceded like this. She was trying to sweeten his suspicions by agreeing that grounding her was the right decision.

Sighing, Charles sat down on the edge of her bed, facing her.

“Phoebe, I know you told the footman to move my painting,” he finally said.

“I do not speak to the footmen, Papa. There are lots of them, and I am only small.”

Her little, innocent voice would have made him laugh if he were not riled up.

Behind her, the sky was already darkening. He had spent all day penning letters to notorious members of the ton to apologize for what they were exposed to, trying to contain the scandal that had broken out in his ballroom the night before.

“If you were angry, I would understand,” he tried gently. “I just want to know the truth.”

She looked at him with suspicion, as if she doubted he could truly understand.

Exhaling wearily, Charles knew he would get nowhere by trying to coax a confession out of her.

“Phoebe,” he said sternly, “I need you to be honest with me because you have hurt not only me with this prank, but somebody else as well. Someone innocent, who should not have been involved. Someone who did not even know the painting existed.”