Page 28 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

" H ave they made any progress?”

Margaret turned from her post at the door, signaling Mr. Hawthorne—though he insisted on being called Bastian, like they were old friends—to lower his voice. She stepped away, giving her ear a much-needed break.

“I could not say,” she replied, drawing them a few steps from the study door.

“I can barely hear a word they are saying—well, shouting. And heavens, but there is so much shouting...” She bit her lip.

“You have known His Grace and Lord Somerton much longer than I have known them. Do they usually fight so passionately?”

“There is usually no fighting at all,” Bastian replied, sneaking back over to the door to listen to himself. “I take it Miss Bell is the cause of all this upset. I have never seen Old Carlisle so angry as when he glimpsed her in the dining room, picking away at her pudding.”

“It was lucky His Grace had the good sense to excuse himself and Lord Somerton immediately. Miss Bell does not deserve to witness this. She is not to be blamed.” Margaret looked down the corridor. The house was quiet, except for the muffled arguing from within the study. “Where is Miss Bell now?”

“Retired to her rooms.” Bastian stepped away and leaned beside Margaret on the wall. “May I ask... Oh, but I really should not.”

“And I should not be eavesdropping. This is not the evening for shoulds .”

“How did this affair with Miss Bell come about? Alexander implied she is his sister, but I have never heard mention of another Somerton illegitimate before.”

Margaret gave him a summary of what she knew: Alexander’s investigation, Isadore’s disruption of their wedding, and Carlisle’s resulting wrath.

“Mr. Ripley, you say?” Bastian stroked his short beard once he was done.

“No, Alexander never mentioned him to me. But he is more like his uncle than he wants to admit. Secretive, unforthcoming with regards to anything that might genuinely matter in his life. But ask him about the Tories and the man won’t shut up.

” He side-eyed Margaret. “Though this development does explain some things.

Over the last few years, I wouldn't lie if I said I hadn't sensed a change in Alexander. Surlier than usual—until he met you.”

Margaret wondered whether that was a good or bad thing, keeping the question to herself.

“Has Miss Bell given him good reason to believe that she is his long-lost sister?” Bastian asked.

“It would seem that way, yes. I have not seen the evidence with my own eyes, but His Grace appears convinced that she fits the bill.” The voices from the study died down somewhat, and Margaret tensed.

“It is not clear yet what he wishes to do in the case of Miss Bell. Legitimize her, certainly, if she proves herself to be worthy.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy, Your Grace? Or perhaps that was merely concern?” Bastian choked on a laugh as she gave him an angry look.

“One would not blame you for feeling that way.

You are just married, and your husband's attentions are now divided between you and this new sister. Perhaps it was a good thing I arrived when I did.”

“Do explain.”

“I could distract Miss Bell for you, attempt to acquaint myself with her, allowing Alexander to focus his time on you rightly. Would you like that? But of course, you would. No freshly married woman wishes to be ignored. And if I glean a few things about Miss Bell in the meantime, would that not be useful to you too?”

It sounded dangerously like a scheme, and Margaret worried Alexander would feel betrayed by his closest friend and his new wife collaborating to undermine him.

But perhaps there was no harm in trying. This was, after all, for Alexander’s own good.

“Alright, Mr. Hawthorne. We will not play games with them, but if you would like to spend time with Miss Bell, I will not attempt to stop you.”

“Wonderful.” Bastian grinned. “And another word of advice.

We do not yet know the results of Alexander and Carlisle's fight, but I would wager that neither will want to admit wrongdoing in the face of the other. Alexander does not have the means to subdue his uncle. However, I believe that if you tried, you might be successful. Speak with Lord Somerton in the morning, Your Grace. He may reveal more than you expect.”

Bastian glanced over his shoulder at the study door. There was movement inside.

“But come,” he said, already hurrying away with a laugh. “We should make ourselves scarce before we find ourselves in the Langley line of fire.”

Margaret gazed into Carlisle’s study, pausing in the open doorway.

The room was half the size of the official library, but it shared a similar style, featuring floor-to-ceiling bookcases and ample seating areas for reading.

A staircase by the door led to a walkway up above.

The dark wooden parquet was covered with fine Persian rugs—different in style, more exotic than the decor elsewhere in the manor—a veritable glimpse into Lord Somerton’s mind.

Carlisle looked up over his spectacles when he noticed her, removing them and leaning back in his chair. “You honor me with your visit this morning,” Carlisle said, sounding wearier than he let on. “What can I do for you, Duchess?”

“We did not see you at the breakfast table,” Margaret replied, crossing the room.

She stood before his desk. The top was littered with trinkets and books: journals with crinkled pages, a small globe, coins from another world, pressed herbs.

.. A small stone caught her eye, engraved with a bird.

Eliza would have liked it. “I wondered whether you wished some tea brought to your chamber.”

“It is not within your responsibilities to wait on me, Your Grace.” Carlisle smiled. “I broke my fast alone. You needn’t concern yourself on my account.”

Margaret nodded. She examined the notebook he had been writing in. The pages were thick and cockled. She could only imagine how many places that book had been.

“Might I ask what you are working on, My Lord?”

“Oh...” Carlisle looked flustered. He half-covered the open page with his hand before allowing Margaret to see. “I suppose there is no harm in showing you. I am working on a book.”

“A book?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat, then pointed at a painting hanging nearby. “That painting over there... Do you recognize that chalk form in the distance? Do you see it? That shape carved into the hillside?”

“Why, I believe so.” Margaret took a few paces toward the painting, wanting to be sure. “That is the Westbury White Horse.”

“Indeed. One of several such hill figures scattered across this fair county. My book, currently titled Antiquities and Observations from Wiltshire for the World, focuses on the unique characteristics of the area. I am attempting to draw comparisons across civilizations. But naturally, the focus remains on Wiltshire.”

“That sounds fascinating... An ambitious undertaking, to say the least.”

“Well, ambitious though it may be, I doubt it will find much readership outside of antiquarians and those fellows at The Royal Society. But it gives me great pleasure to compose it, nonetheless. I’ve begun to speculate whether Wiltshire was, in its own way, a center of culture as impressive as Delphi or Ephesus. ”

Margaret smiled. “And here I thought you only had opinions on Somerstead Hall and poetry.”

“Shows how little you know me, Duchess.” He chuckled, scribbling a final note. “Though Somerstead Hall and Wiltshire poetry will each receive a chapter, of course. But I must return to my work now. Unless there is anything more you require from me, besides tea and White Horses?”

Margaret hesitated, but Carlisle had not been the only one missing from breakfast, and she wanted answers. “Have you, perchance, encountered His Grace this morning?”

The scratching of Carlisle’s quill promptly stopped.

“I know that it is uncouth to pry, but I must admit some concern over your... disagreement last night. I heard the two of you arguing quite fervently before I retired to bed. And if there is trouble between you?—”

“Such concern is also not within your responsibilities, Margaret.”

Margaret pressed her lips together. She heard Carlisle sigh softly, then rise fully out of his chair. Like Alexander, he was half a foot taller than her, cutting an impressive figure despite his age.

“But I see that it does concern you, and that you have already developed a deep consideration for my family, which is now your family.” He glanced down and closed his notebook once the ink had dried. “I shall not reward your empathy with anger. Ask whichever questions plague you.”

“They are not so numerous as to compose a plague, but I appreciate your invitation all the same. Why does Miss Bell’s presence disturb you so much?”

“Would that I could offer you a simple answer.” Carlisle brushed the cover of his notebook, clearly thinking. “If I were to attempt one, I would say that His Grace’s predispositions have compromised his judgement of the situation. And such partiality can only lead to disaster.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Then I shall explain. My nephew is, in most regards, a well-tempered and rational man. I know this because I raised him as such. But within him exists a boy who was plucked from obscurity and risen to nobility. He sees in this Isadore, whomever she is, the chance to atone for his father’s mistakes.

..” He choked on the word father, and Margaret’s skin prickled.

She remembered what Alexander had said: two men, who could not have been more different.

“That is my belief, at least. Alexander's obedience to his sense of honor will only lead to his downfall.”

“But if she is who she says she is?—”

“She is not, could not be. I would know of an Isadore, a child between my brother and the opera singer, if one existed, and I do not.”

Margaret faltered. Carlisle seemed so sure. But Alexander’s father seemed to have had many secrets. What was one more, with Isadore?

“I have faith that time will reveal the truth, whatever it may be. There is nothing more to be said on the interloper for now. My nephew and I will not meet eye-to-eye on this matter, not now and not ever. If he wishes to host this woman for a time, I cannot stop him. But I will not remain idle forever. And that, he knows.”

Carlisle returned to his chair, opening his notebook again. Margaret would not press him further. She had already outstayed her welcome. She curtsied modestly and bid him a good day, returning the way she had come and finding the house silent.

Bastian, like he had promised, had already taken pains to distract Isadore that morning. Margaret had no desire to chase after them and resigned herself to spending the morning alone.

Not long after she had settled in her chambers, she heard Augusta knock on the door.

“You called for me, Your Grace?”

“I did,” Margaret replied from her position by the armoire. “I was wondering where you had stored my wedding trousseau. This bedroom is a cavern, and I have tried hopelessly to find it. I promised to write Eliza, and my stationery is in that trunk.”

Augusta paused nervously at the door.

“Is something wrong, Augusta?”

“Nothing, Your Grace.” Augusta gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She entered and moved toward a dresser by the window. Margaret's writing set had been neatly stored in the top drawer, between bed linens and nightclothes.

“I fear I should have consulted with you before organizing your things, but you have been so busy since we arrived in Wiltshire,” Augusta explained.

“I am glad I appear busy,” Margaret murmured, thinking of her absent husband. She took her writing things and moved them to her escritoire.

“Is the Langley stationery not to your liking?” Augusta asked, something off in her voice—perhaps weary from work, maybe something more.

“It is perfectly fine.” Margaret glanced up and raised a brow. When Augusta smiled reassuringly, she continued: “But a woman must preserve a few things about herself from before she became someone’s wife. Helena is always saying that. And anyway, I do so love this set.”

Margaret ran her hand over the stack of paper. The parchment was dyed a light pink, neatly bound together with a string. Her initials, M.P., had been printed on every page.

“You will need to change that,” Augusta noted, pointing at the initials. “But it is a lovely design... and it looks expensive.”

“Oh, it is. Papa gifted it to me when I made my debut into society. He gave me the set, then took my arm and squeezed it, saying I would tire out my arms for all the letters I would be writing to interested gentlemen. How hopeful he was for me, and how little he knew about the future. Or perhaps, it is better to say, how little he let on...”

Margaret settled in her writing chair and untied the string, tucking away the memories of her father for another time.

She licked her thumb, selecting the first sheet of parchment from the pile.

Augusta stood behind her, and when Margaret glanced her way, she looked like she was going to faint.

Before Margaret could question her, Augusta burst into tears.

“Why, Augusta!” Margaret scooted out of her chair, and it scraped against the floor. “Whatever is the matter?”

Augusta covered her face with her hands. “I have done something terrible, Your Grace. And I must make amends, I must!”

“Amends for what?” Margaret pried the maid’s hands away from her face. “You could do no wrong in my eyes. Tell me what has happened.”

Steadying her trembling chin, Augusta reached into the pockets of her apron. She pulled out a small white rectangle: a letter. Margaret took it. The seal was plain, a dark red. However, the writing on the front read ‘ For Margaret...’

In the unmistakable handwriting of her missing father.