CHAPTER 16
U pon his return home, Damien learned that his mother and Mrs. Oliver had gone for tea at Bramble Cottage. Sylvie was in the midst of her dance lessons, for he could hear the sound of the music, and the instructor’s voice at intervals, from the ballroom. Fortune smiled upon him, for there could be no better opportunity for his bit of espionage.
Once in his chamber, he retrieved the duplicate key to the lock in the adjoining door. The dark blue room was silent and empty, sunlight pouring through the windows. The maid had clearly tidied the space already and he stepped into the room, inhaling deeply of Esmeralda’s perfume. Mere hours had passed and he missed her with an ache. He surveyed the neat organization of her belongings, noting that they were similarly organized.
He opened the drawer of the writing desk and found it still full of pages, each covered with her flowing script. The top one was even written upon the stationary provided for guests.
The top page, he wagered, might be the one she had written that morning.
Upon the prospect of peril…
There are those, to be certain, who find it thrilling to dare mightily in their intimate encounters. Such individuals will say that risk makes them feel alive, that taking a chance ensures the magnitude of what the French call ‘the little death.’ And truly, it can be thus. Our bodies can be stirred to greater heights when we perceive an increment of danger – but there is a greater danger to the pursuit of such intimate games with one partner.
One participant may lose his or her heart to the other, and therein lies the greatest risk to his or her future joy. To be in love alone is a torment beyond description, a malady which compels the afflicted to feign delight for the beloved, often at his or her own expense. Of course, we desire those we love to be happy, but when that happiness keeps the object of our desire from us, there can only be pain and loneliness, even despair. I myself have endured these agonies and can recommend them to no one – though no one plans to lose their heart. No one intends to care more for another than for one’s own self. No one realizes how much they will risk for the sake of another or how great a surrender they will willingly make.
It is said that there is no greater joy than two hearts finding each other, though I have not experienced that happy circumstance. I will assure you, though, that even if you love alone, you can love again, and that the new love will heal the wounds of the other, so surely that the first encounter and its pain might be eclipsed completely by the newfound love. If nothing else, one can be assured that Cupid’s deepest wounds can be healed – even if the injury is to be replaced by a yearning that may forever remain unfulfilled.
Therein lies the greatest danger of all.
Damien put down the page to consider its contents. Had Esmeralda not once confessed to him that she had lost her heart to a man who did not hold her in equal regard? He had a notion that it was a mutual acquaintance, though he could not name the man in question. Quite possibly she had not confided it in him. How had that man spurned her? Perhaps by wedding another. Perhaps by finding her love and her charms inadequate because of the trade that had been inflicted upon her, the trade she could not leave lest she become destitute.
He felt a tide of annoyance on her behalf, snared in a life that required her to ensure the satisfaction of men, while none of them could or would provide her with assurances, security or even the confidence that she might ever know either.
No wonder she protested against his proposal, and even his avowal of love. What had this other man said to her? What had he done? Damien imagined he might simply have left, or wed another lady, or forgotten whatever happy situation had been between himself and Esmeralda.
Whatever had happened, her love had not been of import to him.
He supposed he should be grateful to that fool, but instead he was annoyed on Esmeralda’s behalf. How dare any man fail to realize what a marvel she was?
He returned the pages to the writing desk in her chamber, then strode back into his own with resolve. He relocked the adjoining door then rang for Townsend. He had read enough of her book to be convinced that the prose was well-composed, and he knew that she understood the subject matter. He had the endorsement of his own sister as to the merit of the contents and the interest of his mother in procuring a copy.
Now he would act in defense of her interests, thereby proving himself worthy of Esmeralda’s trust.
He would be the man who proved himself to be true, the sole man deserving of her regard.
“My lord?” Townsend said, as composed as ever, and this despite being summoned at an unusual time.
“I will go to London immediately for I have business to attend there. You know best what garments are at the house there and what I will need to remain a week or so, perhaps longer.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I send word to the stables for the coach?”
“Yes, if you would. I will write a note to my mother, but please tell her that my business is urgent and demands my attention at once. I will reassure her of my return before the workmen arrive.”
“Very good, my lord. Will you change your linens before you leave?”
“Yes, thank you, Townsend. An excellent idea.” Damien was already planning his calls. A matter such as Esmeralda’s book could not be discussed in a letter, to his thinking. He had to speak to people in privacy and thus he made a list. Edward Carruthers, to be sure. Bettencourt might know more of the matter, given that his wife was Carruthers’ daughter. What did Montgomery know of it all? Damien had met Mrs. Oliver first at Rockmorton at Christmas, after all.
He could only hope that all of the parties he wished to see were yet in the city.
Esmeralda and the dowager duchess returned to a quiet house.
“My lady,” the butler said with a bow. He offered a tray to the older woman, with a letter upon it. Esmeralda recognized the duke’s firm handwriting. “The duke has gone to London, my lady, upon urgent business. He has left you a note, but wished you to be reassured that he will return before the workmen arrive.”
“That is more than a fortnight away,” that lady noted, clearly unaware of Esmeralda’s disappointment.
Had the duke left Nottinghamshire because she had declined his proposal? In truth, she had expected him to persist in his campaign to win her agreement, and had hoped for several more merry nights together before her own return to London.
Perhaps her surrender of a secret had ended his interest in her. He might perceive that he was victorious and thus lost any interest in her. He was a military man, after all, and conquest would be highly satisfying. Surrender might be more so. Esmeralda found that a compelling explanation, though one that did not bring her joy.
She might not see him again in Nottinghamshire.
She might never see him in private again. The prospect was dreary beyond all.
Even with a ball to plan, and the dowager duchess determined to consult with her about the matter, even with Sylvie nearby, Haynesdale Manor seemed suddenly without appeal to Esmeralda.
She told herself it was better thus, but she did not believe it. No matter, she had overcome the disappointment of a broken heart before: if this time, she had fallen even more in love, she would rise above this heartbreak, too.
She supposed she should be glad to have kept the secret of her love from the duke’s incisive gaze.
The dowager duchess meanwhile opened the missive, which appeared to be short for she read it quickly. “When has he ever been so impetuous? I ask you, Mrs. Oliver, is there any sense to be found in men in these times?”
“Little that I have seen,” she managed to reply. “If you will forgive me, my lady, I am tired after our outing.”
“Yes, Fanny has a way of exhausting one,” the older lady said absently. She read the letter again, frowned and waved it in frustration. “What business could he possibly have to attend in London? There is nothing urgent this time of year.”
“I could not say. Excuse me.” Esmeralda managed an awkward curtsey, which was ignored by all. She hobbled toward her chamber, leaning more heavily on Mrs. Oliver’s cane than was her habit. She felt older in his absence, her dark future seeming more inevitable than it had just hours before.
Was she doomed to be a fool when it came to matters of the heart? She loved Damien, she had entrusted him with her secrets, and yet he had cast her aside, just like all the others.
She secured the door, tore off her veils and hat and flung both onto the bed. The wig followed them, even as she let the pins fall to the floor and scatter. She stepped out of the dress, managing to unfasten it herself with some effort, and left it in a pile on the floor. She sank down to the seat before the writing desk, feeling despondent. She should write, but she had no heart for it in this moment. It was difficult to care for the happiness and contentment of others when she felt such despair.
She had believed Damien to be different. He had convinced her that he was.
And yet, he was not.
Esmeralda surveyed the chamber, as rich and comfortable a refuge as she could have hoped to find. She was to stay another ten days. Should she leave because the duke was gone? Or should she remain to witness the ball for Sylvie? She felt no haste to return to town herself, her servants were away until the scheduled end of her trip, and she did not wish to be in London all alone so long as Jacques drew breath.
There were worse accommodations, to be sure, and inferior situations to the luxuries of a duke’s country manor.
She would stay, though she knew she would hope for the duke’s return.
Three mornings later, Esmeralda heard a soft tap upon her door. It was the door to the garden and the hour was very early. She donned her robe and went to the door, peering around the edge of the drape. Pearson was there, the barest shadow against the wall, his hat drawn down low. There was an urgency in his expression that prompted Esmeralda to unlock the door.
“Only an increment, my lady,” he murmured. “No one should see.”
“What is amiss?”
“I have had word from London.”
She hoped silently it might be a message from the duke.
“Someone broke into your house and left the contents in shambles.”
Esmeralda caught her breath.
“The thief was not apprehended. His deed was discovered after he had fled,” the former soldier confided, his gaze solemn. “But you should know that a man we consider to be of interest left Fleet Prison the day before.”
Jacques DesJardins was free!
“He was not found innocent?”
Pearson shook his head. “He escaped, undoubtedly with the aid of some accomplices. No one knows where he has gone.”
But Esmeralda could guess. “He went to my house,” she whispered. “He sought what he had left there.”
“Indeed? He left something there?” Pearson’s gaze was bright. “Would he have found it?”
Esmeralda shook her head. “No, for it is here, along with both females whose lives he would destroy.”
She watched understanding dawn in his eyes. “Then you must remain safely within Haynesdale Manor, my lady. I will send word to the duke, though he may already know of this. I do not doubt that the news will hasten his return.”
Esmeralda thanked him, then closed and locked the door, knowing Pearson waited to hear the lock sink home. She closed the drape securely, sealing herself in darkness, then lit a single candle. She closed her eyes, feeling her fists clench, knowing in her heart that Jacques would never abandon the chase. He had invested in her, so he had told her many times, and he would have his due of her. If he could not force her into service, she knew he would abduct Sylvie instead.
She could not bear the prospect of Sylvie sharing any crumb of her own experience. She knew Damien believed he had allowed for all of the possibilities, but he was mistaken. She must draw out Jacques, and only one of them would survive the confrontation.
It must be thus. It must be done.
Esmeralda had a very good idea of how it might be contrived. She had found the second prize secreted by Jacques within her house, after all. The magistrate had discovered the ruby necklace, stolen by Jacques, the necklace with rubies carved to resemble berries. But there had been a pearl brooch as well, one garnished with sapphires, each and every one of them too big for the piece to be readily sold. She had searched and found it in the house after she was released from prison, knowing it must be there. In truth, it had been sloppily hidden, as if to invite discovery. Apparently, the magistrate had been content to find one item and had ceased his search before locating the second. Jacques must have intended that one or the other might be readily found, if not both.
Now Jacques had returned for it, as she had expected, though the duke had also been right that the thief still wished for vengeance upon her. Esmeralda knew that she had to reveal her possession of it in a way that would draw Jacques out that he might implicate himself in its original theft.
And perhaps make an attempt to steal it again. He would believe it to be his, after all. She knew how he thought.
That was why Esmeralda had not come to Haynesdale unprepared.
She hauled out her traveling trunk from its place against the wall and flung open the lid. She removed the contents with haste, setting them in piles around her feet until the trunk was empty.
Then she ran her fingers around the edges of the bottom until she found the indent, carefully disguised by an extra piece of lining. She pulled up the false bottom and confirmed that all was there, just as she had packed it.
She stared at the items packed in that additional space for long moments, knowing that she might pay the ultimate price to see Jacques dead.
She did not care. Sylvie had to be safe.
Esmeralda lifted out the pearl brooch studded with sapphires, turning it in the light so it sparkled. It was a beautiful and unforgettable piece. She would enjoy wearing it, even once.
Also in the bottom of the trunk was a glorious blue dress, with gloves and shoes and hairpins. It was a favorite of Esmeralda’s and the color was perfect to highlight the sapphires. She had brought a five strand choker of pearls to display it proudly. They were false, but good counterfeits, good enough to showcase the prize.
She would draw every eye, including the one she desired most.
There was also a finely finished wooden box, which Esmeralda lifted out with reverence. Nestled within it were a pair of dueling pistols with silver chasing on the grips. She ran an admiring fingertip over them, remembering those early mornings under the tutelage of Joseph Manton himself, in his shooting gallery in Mayfair. Only gentlemen practiced their aim at No. 25, but Esmeralda had visited the gallery with an escort years before and impressed Manton with her mild success. When she entreated him to teach her to improve, he had agreed, provided that she not be present during his usual business hours, lest the gentlemen be offended.
He said she had been his best pupil. For years, they had exchanged polite nods and kept the tale of her lessons a secret between they two.
Before leaving London, Esmeralda had tried to buy a pistol from Mr. Manton for her own defense. Instead, he had demanded to know what was amiss, and though she did not tell him every detail about Jacques, he had loaned her this fine pair of dueling pistols. He had drilled her on the care and cleaning of them, of the routine of loading them, admonishing her to use the greatest care.
She took them now to the writing desk and began to clean them as instructed, familiarizing herself with them so she would be able to do what had to be done.
Jacques was coming.
Esmeralda would not be unprepared.
There was yet a week for Ophelia to sew a large pocket into the blue gown. Esmeralda would need only one pistol, for her aim would be true.
“How uncommon to have a visit from you, Your Grace.” Edward Carruthers was visibly flustered and polished his glasses with uncharacteristic zeal. He had invited Damien into his small office at Carruthers & Carruthers, which was made all the smaller by the volume of proofs and books that covered his desk. The shelves on the walls were filled with Carruthers & Carruthers editions, so full that there were books stacked atop those neatly shelved. The shop was busy, though Damien did not see Baroness Trevelaine on this day. The two young ladies at the desk so resembled Mr. Carruthers’ eldest child that they must also be his daughters. There was a smell of ink and paper that Damien found pleasant, and the comforting sound of the printing presses at work in the back room.
He did like this place, perhaps even as much as his father had liked it.
“But a welcome treat,” Mr. Carruthers added hastily, when Damien did not reply. “Particularly if I might be of service.”
“I am not certain, Mr. Carruthers, if that is possible,” Damien said. He toyed with his cane, which he had brought for the sake of appearances. He had not yet decided how he would present his own view of Esmeralda’s book. “The matter is somewhat delicate.”
“You may rely upon my discretion, Your Grace.”
“Of course. The fact is that I heard a rumor of a book proposed for publication and I wondered if you might know something of it.”
“Oh.” A shadow touched the older man’s features and Damien guessed that he did know of the book in question. “And what might I know of it, sir?”
“Well, I know little of the process, but I assume a book must find a publisher. Perhaps the author had presented the volume to you, seeking that publication.”
Mr. Carruthers had stilled and his gaze was steady. “Do you know the author, sir?”
“I am not certain. I heard that her name might be Mrs. Oliver.”
His companion caught his breath. “ That book,” he said through his teeth, then exhaled mightily. “I can well imagine that the potential publication of that book might concern you, Your Grace, for it is a highly uncommon volume.”
“Have you read it?”
“Only a page or two.” Mr. Carruthers sighed. “My eldest, Catherine, is quite committed to both the volume and the author, though I heartily disagree with her choice.”
How interesting that the baroness took Mrs. Oliver’s cause. Damien added a visit to Baron Trevelaine to his list of errands.
“I do not understand,” he said mildly.
“It is a book of intimate advice for ladies,” Mr. Carruthers confessed quietly. “I do not believe it to be the sort of volume published by this firm, but my daughter is determined to champion the work.”
“Has she approached other publishers?”
“I do not know. The author herself is a disagreeable woman, but a patron.” Mr. Carruthers winced. “It is a most delicate situation. I must deny a patron and my daughter both, but I am certain that you will agree, sir, that I cannot publish this volume. My brother and partner has young sons, and they must be defended against any kind of inappropriate literature.”
“But what of your daughters?”
Mr. Carruthers inhaled sharply. “It would be outrageous and inappropriate for any of them to be sullied by such information.”
And yet, his sister credited this book with the happiness of her own match. Baroness Trevelaine had found contentment in her own marriage at precisely the same time she had met Mrs. Oliver at Rockmorton. That could not be a coincidence, though Damien would strive to learn more.
Indeed, he was struck by the contrast in the older man’s perspective. Carruthers would protect his nephews from any understanding of women’s pleasure, although they would undoubtedly be expected to make sexual conquests before their own marriages. They might even be taken to Paris for such education, as he had been himself. His daughters, though, would remain ignorant by this decree, a circumstance that did not trouble this otherwise doting and affectionate father. Baroness Trevelaine might be happy because of this volume, but her father would keep it from finding any audience at all – for the sake of his nephews.
Damien knew he would never have discerned the differing view based on gender, much less been annoyed by its unfairness, if he had not been lectured by Esmeralda Ballantyne.
The lady changed all, and he could only appreciate that.
In the meantime, Mr. Carruthers was watching him with a measure of expectation. Here, too, was proof of Esmeralda’s prediction, that his own reputation and influence might be damaged by a connection with her project. No, he would take inspiration from her own skill with disguise and subterfuge: he would ensure the publication of the book, but he would do it secretly. To all observers, he would share Carruthers’ view.
“I had no notion the book was explicit,” he said.
“What I have read is very explicit,” Carruthers countered.
“Well, then, you can only have chosen correctly,” Damien said and the other man smiled with relief. “An established firm such as this cannot become embroiled in the publication of such literature. Leave that to the presses of Fleet Street.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. You understand the situation well. The fiction we publish is of the highest quality, suitable for ladies of gentle breeding and exquisite taste…”
Damien let Carruthers expound for a few moments before taking his leave. He had unwittingly given himself an idea. Fleet Street abounded with printers, but he would not hasten there himself. Perhaps he knew someone better versed in that trade. A solicitor? An acquaintance at his club? He should learn who the baroness had contacted in pursuit of her goal, then be assured that he had many listening ears attuned to news that might prove useful. He would have to spend the summer at Haynesdale Manor to oversee the renovations, but very little business was conducted during the summer months. He could set his sentries and retreat to wait.
The hunt was on and Damien was sufficiently honest with himself to admit that he enjoyed it. He had been languishing since the end of the war, with no challenge to seize his attention. He should not be surprised that it was Esmeralda who repaired that situation. The woman was a treasure and he would move mountains to win her hand in his.
In all honesty, he liked that hers would be no ready surrender. The hardest-won prize always provided the sweetest victory, after all.