Page 22 of Love, the Duke (Say I Do #3)
C HAPTER 22
MAN’S PRACTICAL GUIDE TO APPREHENDING A THIEF
SIR BENTLY ASHTON ULLINGSWICK
Make the suspect feel he can confide in you.
Hurst walked over to the table and downed the rest of Ophelia’s brandy and poured himself another splash. The heat of the liquor swallowed so quickly sent a flush through him. He took off his coat and threw it with more force than necessary for it to land on the bed rather than the floor. But what the hell did it matter. He’d told Ophelia he wouldn’t forbid her to search for the chalice and then he had. That was not his finest hour.
He knew it was close to the time the vicar would be arriving at the church. A missing sacrament would cause a rumble of concern. Perhaps a large donation would soothe the bishop’s and new vicar’s ruffled feathers. It would not soothe Ophelia’s. But perhaps it would give them time to find the chalice.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood in front of the window staring out while the sun hung lower in the sky with every passing minute. The strong drink helped ease the tension in the back of his neck and shoulders but failed to touch the ache in his chest.
Hurst didn’t like arguing with Ophelia, or making her feel as if he wasn’t helping. And he certainly didn’t like going back on his word.
Maybe he’d handled their conversation all wrong. No, hellfire, he had handled it wrong. Passionately was the only way he knew how to talk to her about her search to save her brother’s legacy.
What was she going to do? Exactly what she’d indicated she would do and defy him? Probably. Perhaps she had legitimate reason to. He had acquiesced to her wishes and told her she didn’t have to obey him. The surprising thing was he hadn’t minded at the time. So no, he couldn’t rightly forbid her to do anything. She was right. That had been the wrong thing for him to say in the heat of the moment or at any other time.
Of all the ladies in London, why did the most stubborn of them have to be the one destined for him to love and cherish? And he did with his whole being. He wouldn’t make any excuses or apologies for that to anyone, including himself. She was all he could ask for in a wife. Exquisite, persuasive, and beautiful beyond any other woman he’d seen or imagined.
Hurst walked over to the slipper chair and plopped himself down while continuing to brood. In truth, he had to rationalize that she was much like him after he’d met her—feeling she might be the lady for him at times but believing she couldn’t possibly be because she wasn’t like the lady he’d always expected: demure, compliant, and obedient to his will. He couldn’t count the number of charming ladies he’d met over the past ten years who were exactly like that, and with every one of them, he wanted to feel that spark of erotic sensation that told him she was to be his bride. But in his soul, he knew they weren’t. Ophelia was.
She was meant to be his. Since he knew that, it was no wonder he worried about her and that he was so passionate to make her consider another way might be better. Ophelia continued to take too many chances with her safety and reputation. She was not only a lady and a duchess, but was the love of his life. That made all the difference. Whether it was said clearly or mumbled, the word obey was in their marriage vows, and also cherish and protect .
Why wouldn’t she just let him handle this theft the normal, practical way? By people who had actually done things like this before and knew how to do it with the most efficient means. He didn’t know what he was going to do about her, because her will was as strong as his.
Raising his voice when he was angry wasn’t the answer to anything either. He didn’t mean to, and by the devil he might have been loud, but it wasn’t yelling as she’d claimed. He knew the difference. He yelled at his sporting club’s events. He’d yelled at his father. To her, he only talked loudly, but he was trying not to do that.
Maybe she only thought he was excessively loud because her brother and father had always been so damned calm and thoughtful about everything they said, even if they were furious with someone. The person would never know it by their tone or expression. It was their calling to know how to keep peace and live in harmony at all times. Hurst didn’t understand it.
In life, there was nothing wrong with showing passion in your voice when it was called for. Not that it mattered to him, but Ophelia’s voice had risen a time or two as well. Although he hadn’t called her on it. And wouldn’t. He didn’t mind her emotions showing in her voice.
Someway he had to make her see that it meant he cared deeply for her, for what they were discussing. But admittedly, it was a habit he’d developed whenever he and his dad had rows. Habits could be broken, and he was going to break that one. For her. He would never be as discreet in tone as were those in her family. He didn’t know anyone who was, other than the Stowes. Hurst wanted to be the kind of husband Ophelia wanted and deserved, but there was no way he could fail to show annoyance from time to time any more than he could remain expressionless when he was happy.
What was he going to do concerning her thoughts on the baron? Ophelia had mentioned her own nature. Hurst believed her. And it wasn’t in his nature to suspect a titled man. Perhaps there were some peers who misused their duties to the title and mankind in general, but he didn’t know any who didn’t appear to do their best to be honorable at all times and in all things.
Whoever took the chalice had to have been someone who needed money or had a fetish for collecting religious objects. Hurst combed through his memories of the times he’d been with the baron. They had been at the same card tables a few times. He was an acceptable and honest player. As Hurst recalled, he was damn good at billiards. He always paid his gambling debts. Hurst couldn’t remember anything that would make the man seem odd. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, Lord Gagingcliffe once thought of being a clergyman himself. That didn’t mean anything, though. Hurst had once thought about the possibility of the ministry too.
But what if Mrs. Turner was right and it was a titled man from London who had a collection of artifacts on his bookshelf? And what if the woman who was embedded into her beliefs of the superstitious realm of life was right about Gagingcliffe? What if Ophelia had been right not to give up on what she felt deeply in her heart was the only true way to go?
Hurst couldn’t say he knew the baron well, but he was good at reading a person. What would it hurt if he and Ophelia paid a visit to the man? It would make her happy. And hell yes, he wanted to make her happy. Hurst looked out the window and studied longer on the idea. The sun would be setting soon. That would make it past respectable visiting hours. But most people didn’t mind what time a duke showed up at their door.
On their way over to the baron’s house they could discuss the kinds of questions to ask him while there. If he seemed nervous, jittery, or tried to change the subject when talking about collecting things, religious subjects, that could possibly be a telltale sign. If necessary, Hurst would delve deeper into the baron’s private life. For Ophelia, he would have the man’s whole house torn apart piece by piece if necessary.
Hurst stood up, placed the unfinished drink back on the table, and grabbed his coat off the bed. There was nothing like assessing, or in this case reassessing, a situation to come up with a doable plan. His duty was to Ophelia, not the baron simply because he was a peer. She wanted to question the man, and they would.
He went to her adjoining door and knocked. “Ophelia.” He knocked louder and called her name. He checked the handle. The door was unlocked, so he opened it and went inside. The room was empty.
Damnation! His heart raced. His first thought was that she had she gone to Lord Gagingcliffe’s. Without him? Couldn’t she have given him fifteen minutes to work through what needed to be done before she went chasing off on her own?
“Ophelia!” Hurst raced down the stairs and into the drawing room calling her name.
“Your Grace, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Stowe asked from the settee where she was sitting as he rushed inside.
“Have you seen Ophelia?”
“Yes.” She gazed at him with a concerned stare, closed the book she held, and placed it aside. “Ophelia came back down very shortly after the two of you went up. She said she was going for a walk.”
A walk? He tensed. They had just walked to Hyde Park and back, and all around the fair too. It was more likely she’d gone to see the baron. Hurst would bet money on it.
His heartbeat thudded faster. “Did she have anything with her?” he asked. Perhaps men’s clothing and a wig.
“Only a shawl that I saw and Mrs. Turner so she wouldn’t be alone.”
That she had someone with her was a relief. “Good.”
“Please tell me if something is wrong, Your Grace. I might be able to help.”
“No need for you to worry about anything, Mrs. Stowe. As soon as I find her, we’ll talk and take care of everything.”
Hurst turned to leave but quickly swung back when he caught a glimpse of the book beside her. Impatient, he asked, “Do you mind if I look at the book you were holding?”
“Of course not.” She handed the copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage to him. “I was looking through it again, hoping to find something we might have missed on the many other times we looked at it.”
“I’m glad if it was helpful,” he said absently, and quickly thumbed through the pages and found what he was looking for. With a few tweaks, the coat of arms for the baron’s family would look somewhat like one of the crests Ophelia sketched.
A cold realization settled over Hurst. Mrs. Turner was right. Ophelia was right. Dowager Stonerick’s superstitious friend was right. He laid the book on the settee beside Mrs. Stowe and saw the registry Ophelia had borrowed from the church. Memory flashed that he hadn’t seen the baron’s name in that book. Maybe he’d missed it because he’d been so caught up in finding his cousin’s signature there.
He picked it up and slowly ran a finger down the names again, but the baron’s name wasn’t in the registry. If he was the titled man they were looking for, he must have used an alias, which was the right thing to do if he was planning on stealing something.
He returned the books to Mrs. Stowe. “Thank you. You have been most helpful tonight.”
Mrs. Stowe gave him a wistful smile. “Have I?”
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. You have helped me many times in life.”
“That warms my heart, Your Grace. I want to be helpful, but Ophelia likes to do everything herself.”
“I don’t know how to reasonably explain this, but I knew that about her the first time we met, yet it seems I keep having to learn it over and over again.”
“That makes perfect sense to me.”
Hurst smiled and then headed toward the door calling, “Gilbert, I need my carriage immediately. And find the footman Mr. Mallord for me. Tell him I need him to come with me too!”
Only a few minutes later, Hurst was sitting in Lord Gagingcliffe’s drawing room wondering where Ophelia was. She’d left home in plenty of time to make it to the baron’s house before Hurst. He had halfway expected to find her dressed as a man chatting with the baron when he arrived, as she had been with Mr. Wilbur Sawyer at his sporting club meeting. Could it be that she had actually gone for a walk as she’d told her mother?
Lord Gagingcliffe’s walls were adorned excessively with paintings. Most were hung with limited space between the heavy frames, as if the baron wanted to be sure he’d impress anyone who crossed the threshold of his domain with his many exhibits of artworks.
At present, it was the Duke of Hurstbourne he was trying to impress.
While the baron poured two glasses of spirits, Hurst gave the drawing room a deliberate study. Through conversation he’d have to come up with a reason to be invited into the book room since that is the place Ophelia was certain the chalice would be.
The vastness of the collection bordered on obsessiveness. The men of nobility he knew boasted about increasing their landholdings, not procuring artwork. But there was no crime displaying a large painting or two in one’s drawing room. Perhaps eclectic, but not normal. The man certainly had more than the average home or estate.
A small tabletop was used for a chess set and the fireplace’s marble mantel exhibited a clock one would expect in a home of this stature.
Even so, the room piqued Hurst’s interest. Was there a gold chalice in all this clutter somewhere? Was it in the book room or not here at all?
Ophelia wanted to believe the church’s sacrament cup was in Lord Gagingcliffe’s possession. But she had come to her wit’s end with precious little time left and no other suspect. Pinning the crime on Gagingcliffe made for an easy mark for her. Even though her certainty came only from the dowager duchess’ single name written on parchment.
The baron happily handed Hurst a crystal glass, the older man’s face eager with prospect and wonder. “I’m honored to have you in my home, Your Grace. To what pleasure may I pray have you come to see me?”
Hurst’s pre-planned fabrication came easily as the baron had set it up a few days ago when he’d stopped by Hurst’s table at White’s. “As you indicated not too long ago, Mr. Wilber Sawyer wants to join my sporting club, the Brass Deck. I remembered you know him well. Since we are getting ready to make our selections, I thought to ask your opinion of his suitability for fitting in with our group.”
Flattery raised his brows as the baron replied, “I do know him from a card club where we are both members. I’ve always favored Sawyer as a good chap.”
“I’ve thought so myself but given my limited knowledge it’s prudent to hear all perspectives when possible.”
The baron looked positively agog at the idea of helping Hurst. “I couldn’t agree more. Once we have a man in a club, it’s difficult to cut him if we conclude he isn’t a good fit. It becomes a rather nasty business.”
“True, Lord Gagingcliffe. Has there ever been a whiff of his being dishonorable at cards or anything else you might have heard?”
“He’s above most at all things as far as I know.”
“Good to hear,” Hurst answered, distracted by a rather large painting of the Virgin Mary with a golden halo over her head. The serene smile on her lips held him still. It was almost as if she knew something. A secret she couldn’t wait to share with someone if only they would listen.
The baron’s prideful words cut into Hurst’s thoughts. “She’s majestic, isn’t she?”
“The painting?” Hurst nodded. “Byzantine art?”
“Yes. A rare find she is. One of my favorite purchases. I bought her at an auction after having only seen a crudely painted copy of the original.”
That could very well mean it came from the underworld where many private exchanges of money for art, horses, pleasures, and other things took place. Hurst didn’t have an expert’s eye for priceless art, but what hung on the wall certainly wasn’t a replica.
Doing his best to sound genuine, Hurst questioned, “Where do you usually broker?”
“Penwicke House most of the time. They know what I like. Other places to be sure, but not often.”
Hurst couldn’t help but wonder if that was mostly religious art, even though there wasn’t much sitting around the drawing room.
As calm as the vast morning sea, Hurst inflected a nonthreatening tone in his question: “Do you favor gold or silver when looking for objects rather than paintings?”
“I must confess, I do lean toward gold celestial objets d’art. I think there is great comfort in them. As if possessing them brings us closer to a higher power. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Hurst had no opinion, so he nodded with vague noncommitment, antsy to be on his way, yet held captive by the man’s esoteric discussion—mostly with himself. Gagingcliffe had not shown this side of himself over the card games and billiards they’d enjoyed at various clubs. Hurst felt that the man was just so thrilled he had come over that he couldn’t help but do his best to impress him.
Taking a sip of wine, the baron admitted, “Most of the room’s treasures have been handed down in our family for generations, so I’ve had many years to enjoy them.”
The same as he’d told Ophelia. Hurst led the conversation in the direction he wanted. “We titled men all live with such items. Our homes are those of our predecessors and I would bet the rooms know more stories than the staff.”
His voice lowering, he said, “My staff is well trained at eyes forward and ears back. They are there when I need them and not when I require privacy.”
“As it should be.” Hurst was not one to make small talk, but in this case it was necessary. Keeping the baron’s trust was essential.
Their conversation continued as Hurst drained his glass, declined a second, and wondered where his wife was. Was she clever enough to have found a way inside and was now searching the house while he talked to the baron? Had she really gone for a walk as she told her mother? Had she gone somewhere else?
Gagingcliffe’s sudden faraway look in his eyes caught Hurst by surprise. He confessed, “I fancied myself as a vicar, but I lacked the religious breeding.” With a low chuckle, he confessed, “I have a profound respect for the teachings, but I like my vices too much. Art, cards, and women.
“I really should settle down and marry like you, which is why I am considering offering for Miss Bristol’s hand.”
“She’s lovely.”
“I think so. Do you know her father well?”
“Not well at all.” And if Hurst had anything to say about it, he would make sure her father checked out the baron very well, should he approach the man for his daughter’s hand.
The truth was that he just wanted all of this to be over no matter who the thief was. He wanted to go home and tell Ophelia she need not worry herself further. He had unintentionally hurt her by wrongly forbidding her to search for the chalice on her own. Now he wanted to be able to tell her the matters had been handled and resolved, the chalice being returned to its rightful place.
Distancing himself from those thoughts, he realized he’d missed some of the baron’s prattling. His voice droned onward as he described various pieces and how they came into the family’s estate.
Gagingcliffe continued, leaning into his chair as if he had no other captive audience scheduled for a visit today. The tedium of this verbal trip around the drawing room wore on Hurst’s nerves, but he was careful not to let the baron know he found the entire conversation dull and distasteful.
“I’ve procured a few relics for my own private collection, most of which surround me in my book room. Do you have one yourself, Your Grace? A private collection?”
Hurst’s ears perked up when he heard the words book room and relics . The very kind of room Ophelia had always believed was the new home of the chalice.
Contriving an answer, his mind was distracted with urgency to find a way to do a quick look through the shelving and be gone. “I’m not a collector unless you count waistcoat buttons. Every so often, mine have a habit of jumping ship from my clothing. Eventually my valet gathers them and has them sewn back on. But I meant to mention to you earlier that I had once thought of entering the clergy too.”
“That is news to me.” Steepling his fingertips over his breastbone, the baron hemmed and hawed, starting a sentence, then stopping to redirect his words to another thought as if he warred between being boastful or silent.
In the end, his pedigree of arrogance prevailed, and he formed his words deliberately as if he’d spoke them in a confessional. “Some of my most prized possessions are cleverly hidden in plain sight. The eye follows but where you look isn’t what you see.”
Keeping his pulse from jumping, Hurst projected deliberate firmness, showing no sign of relenting. “You’ve intrigued me. I must see this for myself.”
With a shake of his head, the baron dismissed his request. “It’s not possible today, Your Grace.”
Hurst struggled to stay seated, but he couldn’t run and search for all the hidden pieces of art in the book room with the baron pulling at the tail of his coat. Now he knew why Ophelia always thought snooping was the better plan. “Another time then,” he said.
The baron’s next words were enthusiastic as he spoke. “But while you’re here, you must see this impressive piece I recently acquired—a bejeweled Anglican cross. Indulge me while I go upstairs to my bedchamber to retrieve it.”
“Yes, if you insist.” Hurst couldn’t believe his good luck. The man was going to actually leave him alone in the house. Perhaps he thought a duke was above snooping. And until now, Hurst was.
Lord Gagingcliffe strode toward the doorway, then scampered off like an excited boy. There was no way Hurst was going to chase another man into his bedchamber where, if he indeed had the chalice, it might be. Instead, he stayed but for a short count, his mind considering all possibilities and thinking ahead to his next move.
Hurst couldn’t wait long. Not when he had the opportunity, no matter how small a window to accomplish his quest or how distasteful it was for him to do. It was time for him to conquer his ghosts from the past and drive them out of his mind for good. No matter he vowed to never do such a thing. He swallowed it all and bolted out of the drawing room.
As he rounded the newel post, the front door knocker rapped with staccato beats. But Hurst pressed on, not listening for the butler’s foot treads trailing into the vestibule to answer the caller.
The Duke of Hurstbourne had one mission in mind: get to the book room and search it fast.
He now found himself engaging in the criminal act he had forbidden his wife to do. That he swore to himself long ago he’d never do. Invading someone’s privacy—taking something from them, even if it was for a good reason—was still wrong. But he loved Ophelia, and now believed her suspicions about Lord Gagingcliffe could be true. And he was damned determined to prove she was right.