Page 12 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

Alexander raised his brows in displeasure. “Then all I can do is wish you the best of luck, Miss Pembroke. But on my word, you will regret being taken to wed by that man.”

There was nothing more Alexander could do for her. He had saved her from the storm, but if Margaret were determined to ruin her life by becoming Faversham’s wife, he would not stop her.

Even if the thought of a woman as bright and beautiful as Margaret Pembroke marrying for convenience, marrying into a trap, is a greater crime than has ever been committed. At the same time, I have walked upon this earth.

He walked Margaret back to the manor in silence. In the courtyard, they found Mr. Plim exactly where Margaret had described him, laughing with the staff as they readied one of the carriages for Margaret’s return to Brockenhedge House.

Alexander waited on the front steps as Margaret descended without him, having already said her goodbyes, evidently displeased with him.

She smiled placidly at the staff who helped her enter the carriage, not looking out of the window once she was settled.

Alexander should not have been affected by this.

He didn’t know Miss Pembroke beyond her scandal and the stolen moments they had shared.

And yet the insult of not even being granted a look from her as the carriage rolled down the drive stuck with him until it faded from sight.

At which point, another vehicle emerged from the open gates, dashing away most, if not all, thoughts of Miss Pembroke.

“Carlisle?” Alexander murmured.

What staff remained paused their activities to welcome Lord Somerton’s vehicle.

Alexander gripped the stone railing, eyes darting down.

It was a stroke of bad luck that Carlisle arrived just in time to see Margaret leaving.

Had he seen her in the carriage? Alexander had to find out before Carlisle let his imagination steer him toward undue anger.

His uncle exited the carriage slowly, looking weary from the travel from Oxford.

He adjusted his round-hat, his white hair slightly askew beneath the accessory.

Most of Carlisle’s older friends still clung to their powdered wigs and britches, but his uncle liked to look the part of the modern gentleman and preferred the convenience of a young man’s attire to save on time.

Any minute he could spare – on his appearance, travel, conversation, or otherwise – could be better spent advancing his projects.

Alexander remained on the stairs, watching his uncle’s return from above, like he had done so many times as a boy, counting down the minutes until his uncle returned from wherever he had gone.

For many years, Carlisle had been his only friend in the world.

He had never been a warm man, more of a tutor to Alexander than a replacement for his licentious father.

But Alexander had never known any differently.

They were the only Somerton men left in the world and had only one another to depend on.

Which meant Alexander could not allow Carlisle to think he had hosted a mistress at Somerstead.

“I had not known you were set to arrive this morning,” Alexander said when Carlisle finally spotted him. “I take it the university released you early.”

“The salon meeting was last night,” Carlisle explained, taking the front stairs with purpose.

He was only in his sixties and still quick on his feet.

“Professor Fellowes suggested I remain the extra week to oversee exams, but the salon was stimulation enough for me. I am glad to be returned to Somerstead. Although the gardens have fared better...” He turned back to look at the front courtyard, shaking his head in disappointment.

Alexander stepped aside to follow his uncle indoors. “The damage could not be prevented. The storm swept in without warning.” To say nothing of the metaphorical storm Miss Pembroke might have just called upon them. “You must have heard it when you stopped to rest last night.”

“Oh, of course. Almost battered in poor old Gouger’s house.” Carlisle rubbed his brows, sighing as the staff came in with his belongings. “You remember Lord Gouger, who lives just outside of Bath? Has that son who aspired to become a jockey? Mad thing to do with one’s life...”

“I remember them vaguely,” Alexander murmured. Carlisle had so many acquaintances it was difficult to keep track, but Alexander’s memory was vast. Alexander waited for the entrance hall to empty. “Uncle, you did not happen to see?—”

“The carriage leaving Somerstead just as I arrived? Hm. You are usually more discreet and entertain such activities in London town.” His uncle looked around, worried they would be overheard even though the staff had dispersed.

“I had not expected you to disgrace Somerstead like this. Would you care to share her identity with me at least?”

“I would not. But I assure you, no disgrace took place.”

“Then perhaps you might elucidate another matter for me.”

Carlisle’s tone was familiar, disapproving.

“I was approached by a fellow when I was attending a public house in Oxford. A friend of Herr Schmidt came to me—” another relation, a professor of art, if Alexander remembered correctly “—and said the most curious thing. That my own nephew, the Duke of Langley, had written him a year ago inquiring about a painting, and he was wanting to know what had ever come of the affair, since you did not return his letter.”

Alexander was quiet for a moment, trying to recall the facts.

He had been less cautious when he had started his investigation into the painting, contacting experts without fully eliminating connections to everyone he knew.

The man in question was one of those early subjects, a specialist on French art who had confirmed Alexander’s primary suspicion: that there was no contemporary artist named Rousseau that he knew of with a style that matched the painting of Somerstead.

The artist must have been his own mother or someone posing as her.

“It is nothing to concern yourself with,” Alexander said.

The occasional lie was a necessary evil, not something he enjoyed.

“You will remember I had a fleeting interest in one of the paintings in the gallery. I wished only to see whether someone could shed some light on its origin, after which point I became too busy with other matters to grant that inconsequential interest any further thought. Really, the painting seems to hold no value whatsoever and should be taken down.”

Carlisle shrugged. “If that is His Grace’s wish, then I shall see that it is done.

In the future, I would appreciate you leaving the curation of Somerstead’s collections to me, as we agreed.

” His eyes suddenly lit up, and he raised a finger.

“Speaking of which, I should check in with the footmen who delivered my trunks indoors. I discovered an edition of The Book of Margery Kempe which should under no circumstances be shelved in the communal library. Those poor souls won’t know the difference between a book like that and a common Radcliffe – if they can read the titles at all. ”

Carlisle marched toward the stairs and disappeared from sight. It was difficult to say whether Carlisle believed him about the painting. Still, his uncle would soon forget the ordeal in favor of something more interesting to him: Margaret Kempe, or something like it.

Margery Kempe , Alexander corrected himself.

“That accursed woman has infiltrated my thoughts,” he mumbled, pushing away the lingering image of Miss Pembroke in the garden as he began the walk to his study.

He was intercepted on the way by the butler carrying in the mail. His liveried form darkened the corridor, bowing formally for the duke as he extended a silver tray. A shiver ran down Alexander’s spine as he glimpsed the penmanship on the letter.

“That will be everything,” he told the butler, before proceeding into his study and locking the door behind him.

Another letter from Ripley.

Alexander sliced through the wax seal with his letter opener, replacing it on the desk where it clanged gratingly in his ear. He froze as he read Ripley’s latest note, going over the words five times before they sank in.

“ Your sister lives ,” Ripley had written.

“ Journey to London immediately. ”