CHAPTER 18
T he duke came to Esmeralda and her heart pounded with every step he took. She might have hoped for an embrace or at least a welcome in his gaze, but instead, he was impassive and his eyes were merely dark.
His indifference was shocking, so shocking that she was able to hide the turmoil of her own reaction to his timely appearance.
No, it was not indifference. It was disapproval.
He displayed the weapon he carried. “Yours, I believe?” he said, his tone cool with indifference. She was relieved beyond all to see him, and for his intervention, but he took no more notice of her than he might have granted to a maid in the kitchens.
She had crossed a line by shooting Jacques, but she had no regrets.
This was how it would be.
Esmeralda nodded, her manner the perfect echo of his own. “They were loaned to me.”
“You were wise to procure them.” He offered his hand. “You had best entrust both to me. I will see them returned but you must leave with all haste.”
“But how did you guess, sir?” Sylvie asked.
“It is of no import,” the duke said firmly, his gaze locked with Esmeralda’s. “You will return to London immediately, Miss Ballantyne. You cannot be found here.”
While Esmeralda agreed, she knew the duke’s reasons for making such a stipulation could not be the same as her own. She felt her heart rend in two as she stood there, though she gave no outward sign of the disappointment that might destroy her completely.
Before she could speak, Captain Emerson appeared, following the same route from the house she had taken. “I heard the shots,” he said, his gaze flicking between Jacques, Esmeralda and Sylvie.
“It seems I surprised a thief attempting to rob one of my guests,” the duke said tightly. He moved through the motions of the story he was composing before their eyes. It was a revelation to see how readily he manipulated the truth to his own purposes. “I confronted him here and demanded the return of the gem. He refused, and attacked me with a knife.” He lifted Jacques’ knife and sliced his own shoulder open, wincing as the blade dug into his skin, then casting it back down beside the dead man. Esmeralda caught her breath as his blood stained the linen, but the wound did not appear to trouble him.
He frowned down at Jacques’ inert body. “Fortunately, I was armed for I am just returned from the road to London. That was what brought me to this part of the garden. I took a shortcut to the stables to avoid the line of carriages at my door.” He gestured to the woods behind them and the wing of the house ahead and Emerson nodded.
“Most plausible,” that man said. “But where is the horse?”
“I came from the stables,” the duke corrected, pointing the opposite direction to the house and Captain Emerson nodded. The duke lifted his right hand with the pistol, as if aiming it at an opponent. “My first shot caught him in the shoulder, for it was not my initial intent to kill him. I thought he would surrender the prize if wounded.”
Jacques would never do as much, but Esmeralda did not say as much.
“Instead,” the duke continued. “He turned to flee.” He lifted his left hand as if he held the other pistol and aimed it as well. “I had to stop him.” He looked down at the fallen man. “Again, I would have injured him, no more, but he moved after the shot was fired and you see the regrettable result.” He looked at each of them in turn, and she imagined his gaze lingered upon her.
He would take the credit and the blame for killing Jacques. For whatever reason, he granted her an escape, and Esmeralda would take it. “That is how it was,” she said and he nodded approval of her choice.
“ Précisement ,” Sylvie said softly, her cold hand entwined with Esmeralda’s.
“I cannot doubt the tale,” Emerson said.
The duke nodded again. “Sylvie, you will return immediately to the house with Captain Emerson and you will mention Miss Ballantyne to no one.” His voice hardened. “She was not here.”
Esmeralda felt those words like a blow. Her debt to him was paid, to his thinking. He had left Nottinghamshire because he desired her no more, but had allowed her to remain in his house per their agreement. She stood tall and straight, hiding how his dismissal stung. No doubt he took the blame for killing Jacques because he wanted there to be no reason for Esmeralda to linger. He would not have anyone know of their association, even to the point of facing the magistrate.
Sylvie nodded agreement, her anxious gaze darting between the two of them. Captain Emerson offered his elbow to Sylvie, and when she hesitated, Esmeralda encouraged her to go with a gesture. “I will write to you,” Sylvie said to Esmeralda but the duke shook his head.
“You will do no such thing,” he said, his tone relentless. “You do not know her.”
The words, spoken with such authority, were a knife to Esmeralda’s heart. The price of ensuring Sylvie’s security and future had been her own happiness. She would not have the duke in her life. She would not have Sylvie in her life. She would be alone as never she had been alone before – and worse, she would feel the ache of that solitude because she had lost her heart and hoped for so much more.
So be it. The Duke of Haynesdale would never know the truth.
Sylvie was visibly shaken, and she appealed to the duke. “But…”
“He is right, chère ,” Esmeralda said with resolve. It was almost unbearable to leave Sylvie now, but she knew it was in the younger woman’s best interests. “Do as His Grace bids. Know that I love you with all my heart, even when we are apart.”
Sylvie’s voice was small when she replied. “But we have only found each other again, Esmé.”
“And so it must be,” Esmeralda said, recognizing that she sounded like the duke. She deliberately softened her tone. “You like the dowager duchess, do you not?”
“She is very kind.” Sylvie’s lip trembled and she waited, clearly hoping that Esmeralda and the duke would change their instructions. Neither of them spoke and finally, she sighed. “As you wish, Esmé,” she agreed, then turned away as she began to weep.
“It is the shock,” the duke said tightly, addressing Emerson. “Tell everyone that she is dismayed by having witnessed the death of the intruder. My mother will console her.” He frowned down at Jacques. “The magistrate must be at the house, for he has three daughters and my mother would have invited him. We will have need of other witnesses to ensure there is no question of what has occurred here. I believe I saw Judge Tupper’s carriage in the queue. You might send him and Addersley and any other notable men you find at the party, Emerson.”
“You may also rely upon me,” Emerson noted.
“But we are known to be friends and former comrades.” Resignation touched the duke’s tone. “If you can find an enemy of mine, that would be the best way to dispel any questions.” He claimed the pistol she held, but Esmeralda could only watch Sylvie being led away.
“Promise me you will not wed her,” she said softly to the duke. He was close beside her and she wished she might touch him, that she might take solace in his embrace. But such intimacies were in the past.
She could not imagine otherwise, for he was so stern and cold that he might have been a stranger. It was as if he regretted their interval together, regretting even knowing her, and that was as salt in the wound.
She would never regret their time together. No, that memory she would cherish forever.
Undoubtedly, the fact that she had dared to acquire a firearm and mete justice herself was what offended his sensibilities. It was not the place of women in his world to undertake such responsibilities, even when they needed to be done. Esmeralda could not care for convention and expectations, not when Sylvie’s safety had hung in the balance.
How could he not understand that?
If he did not, then he knew nothing about her, nothing at all. Had it all been simple lust? Had it not been any different than with any other man? Esmeralda was disappointed beyond all at that prospect. She had expected so much more from him.
“I have already promised you, Esmeralda, that I would not.” he said, his words filled with conviction. “Do you doubt my word so much as that?”
“Of course not,” she replied, realizing only as she said the words that they were true.
She trusted him.
But she came to that trust too late for it to be of any import at all. Any admiration was not returned. She supposed she should be glad that she had refused him, for had they been wed and reached this juncture, it would have condemned her to a sorry life. As it was, she could return to her own former trade and pretend nothing had changed.
Even now, the duke turned away, intent upon what must be done, intent upon hastening her disappearance from his life. He studied Jacques intently, as if he, too, would be assured that the wily thief did not move again.
In that instant, Esmeralda realized Tate and Pearson were now standing with them. She had not heard their approach at all. “Miss Ballantyne will depart now,” the duke said to them with crisp authority.
He strode back to her side then, shedding his cloak as he walked. It was a long heavy cloak that fell to his knees, and she felt the weight of it when he cast it around her shoulders. It was warm and redolent of his scent, and Esmeralda instinctively gripped the collar to hold it closed. How strange to have this physical comfort while he was casting her aside with cold precision.
He did not even linger by her side, much less touch her. He did not so much as look at her, and that irked her beyond all. “Tate and Pearson will accompany you to your home in London, ensuring that you arrive safely.”
“I thank you for that courtesy, but my belongings…”
“Will be delivered to you as soon as may be.”
“My maid might take them back to London.”
“I had understood that she had already removed herself to Southpoint.”
Esmeralda found herself nodding.
He turned to Pearson. “You will collect the maid at Southpoint on your way and return her also to London.”
Both men nodded, and defiance rose within Esmeralda. He dismissed her and Ophelia as if they carried the plague!
He glanced back then, as if he sensed her rebelliousness, and his dark gaze bored into hers. “Go, Miss Ballantyne, and go now.” His next words were crushing but should not have been unexpected. “Do not contact me.”
Esmeralda drew herself to her full height and stared back at him, anger giving her strength now that she understood. “For we no longer know each other?”
“We shall be as distant acquaintances,” he said, biting off the words. His gaze was flinty. “It is critical that the world believes that to be the sum of our association.”
Was it possible to also despise a man who had claimed her heart? In that moment, Esmeralda believed it might be so. The duke’s words had been empty promises, just like all the others. He had convinced her that he was different, that this was different, but it was all the same.
The only mercy was that she had not confessed her feelings to him.
Esmeralda turned away, her heart aching that she would be even more alone than she had been before. She shivered, feeling the evening’s chill as she had not before.
Jacques was dead yet curiously, it was not enough.
She felt someone’s gaze upon her as she walked through the rhododendrons, away from the house, Tate on her left and Pearson on her right. Even though she guessed who watched her, Esmeralda Ballantyne did not look back.
The duke could not help but watch Esmeralda walk away, her posture proud and her head held high. His own cloak swirled around her and he could not tear his gaze away from her departing figure. Even this glimpse was precious, for he knew it would be months before he would see her again.
Had he been too harsh? He had been resolved to give no indication to others of the depth of his regard for Esmeralda, but had he convinced her that he held her in disdain? He would not have expected as much, for she was adept at disguise and redirection, but something made him fear that he had erred.
She did not look back. Not even once.
She had to see that they could not be rumored to be in league. She had to see that he could only mislead others about the details of DesJardins’ demise if she was gone. She had to understand that in denying her, he defended Sylvie and that young lady’s reputation, just as Esmeralda herself would have wished.
He strove to do as she would wish, and yet, he sensed that she did not realize as much.
There was nothing for it now. Damien had best have every detail resolved in her favor before he dared to plead his own case.
He knew precisely how he would begin.
London was welcoming in its familiarity, its dirt and dust and bustle. Esmeralda thought her heart might crack wide open when she arrived at her own dear house, then Latimer and Mrs. Nelson stepped out of the door to greet her and she felt it did. She thanked Pearson and Tate for their kindness and left the duke’s cloak in the carriage.
They had ridden directly through, changing horses as necessary and arrived in the evening. Her evening dress was not an unusual choice.
“Welcome home, my lady,” Latimer said with a bow.
“I thank you, Latimer. I trust your time away was enjoyable.”
He beamed at her. “Most enjoyable, my lady, but I did miss London.”
“As did I,” she agreed and smiled. “It is good to be home. Mrs. Nelson? Your family are well?”
“My sister’s girl delivered of a fine boy while I was there,” she said proudly. “I was glad to be there to see it, but I am relieved to be back in my own kitchen.”
“I can well imagine, Mrs. Nelson. I can smell your baking from here.”
The older woman smiled. “A light supper tonight, I thought, but a lovely hot bath first. There is nothing better after a long day of travel in my view.”
“You are so very right, Mrs. Nelson.” Esmeralda heard the driver click his tongue to the horses and turned to watch the carriage depart. It did not bear the ducal crest, but she knew it was one of the duke’s conveyances. Neither Pearson nor Tate looked back, and she suspected she would see neither of them again.
“They do not linger this time, my lady,” Mrs. Nelson asked with evident disappointment.
“There is no cause for it. Jacques DesJardins is dead.”
Latimer caught his breath. “I trust you are sure of that, my lady.”
“I spat on his corpse myself.”
The threesome smiled in shared relief, then Latimer swept open the door for Esmeralda.
Her house smelled of fresh baking and home, and she climbed the stairs immediately to her chamber. There, the promised bath awaited her, filling the air with steam and scenting it with the lavender and rose petals floating on the surface. Jones paused in her task to bob a curtsey to her. Her cheerful manner was a balm to Esmeralda’s soul.
She was home and glad of it. She told herself that whatever – and whoever – she had left behind was of no import at all.
But Esmeralda knew that was not entirely true.
Some three weeks after her return to town, Latimer informed Esmeralda that she had a caller. She was in her front parlor, writing more passages for her book.
“You did not wish to be disturbed, my lady, but he is most insistent, and also known to us.”
Esmeralda glanced up.
Latimer smiled. “He also declares that his errand is a short one. He has a delivery for you, one that must be placed directly into your hands, by his instructions.”
“Then send him in, if you please.”
As soon as Esmeralda recognized that the man in question was Pearson, she was certain what he delivered. Her book pages! She could only appreciate that the duke did not send them by post. He had to know how precious they were to her.
But Pearson handed her a package much smaller than the sheaf of her handwritten pages that she had been compelled to abandon at Haynesdale Manor.
“How agreeable to see you again, Pearson.”
He bowed. “And you, my lady. I have also brought your trunk,” he said, turning to gesture to the foyer of the house. She heard that item being placed on the floor. “Apologies are to be delivered to you for the delay, but it was thought better that this errand be combined with several others, so as not to draw especial attention to it.”
Esmeralda could not help but notice that the duke’s name was not mentioned. Indeed, his existence was not even inferred.
She understood.
“I thank you for your courtesy, Pearson. All is most welcome.” She reached for a box on her desk where she kept some money to tip deliverymen, but Pearson raised a hand to stop her, clearly guessing her intention.
“Thank you, but I have been more than adequately compensated, my lady. It was an honor to be of service to you and may I say that I am happy at the resolution.”
“I thank you for that.”
“Would it trouble you if I said farewell to Mrs. Nelson in the kitchens? She was always most kind to us.”
Esmeralda found herself smiling. “I do not mind, and I believe she will be glad to see you. She has spoken of you and Tate several times.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He smiled and bowed, then turned to leave. She heard Latimer speak to him in genial tones, then their footsteps faded in the direction of the kitchen. She returned to her desk, turning the small package in her hands, then opened it.
There was no letter, though she knew precisely who had sent it to her. On the top was a cutting from a newspaper, one she had not noticed herself.
Fugitive Dead
Jacques DesJardins, a fugitive from Fleet Prison, has been killed in Nottinghamshire. Interrupted while threatening a guest at Haynesdale Manor, DesJardins was shot to death as he strove to escape with the guest’s gems.
DesJardins was well known to authorities. He was charged recently with the thefts of several valuable pieces of jewelry in London earlier in the year, but escaped from Fleet Prison before his case came to court. As he was known to be dangerous, a reward of five thousand pounds was posted, to be paid in the event of his apprehension.
The article was short and left Esmeralda with more questions than it answered. She supposed it was due to the duke’s intervention that her name and that of Sylvie were not mentioned.
Still there remained the bulk of the parcel’s contents, which felt curiously like bank notes. She unwrapped the bundle to discover that her suspicions were correct. It was a stack of new notes, so crisp they might have been printed that very morning. Esmeralda glanced at the article, then counted out the notes on her desk.
Five thousand pounds.
The reward had been paid.
A goodly sum, to be sure. Not sufficient to buy a property in the country, if she had been inclined to leave the city, or to support her for the rest of her days, but more than enough to see to the expenses of her small household until the publication of her book could be contrived.
It was also more than enough to ensure that she did not have to return to her accustomed trade. These funds gave her the freedom to write and concern herself with nothing else.
They were a gift beyond compare.
For a man who insisted that they could only be distant acquaintances, the Duke of Haynesdale certainly ensured that Esmeralda had her heart’s desire. Her opinion of him warmed considerably by this gift, and she went to the hall to find her trunk there. Latimer and Pearson returned from the kitchens, Pearson carrying a bundle of some fresh baking, and the two of them carried the trunk up the stairs together before Pearson made his farewell.
Esmeralda secured the door, then turned her attention to the trunk. It was locked, which encouraged her that it had not been disturbed after Ophelia had packed its contents for her. Fortunately, she had retrieved the key from the actress. She unlocked it and opened it to find much of Mrs. Oliver’s wardrobe neatly folded within it. Ophelia had, of course, worn one outfit on her return to London. Beneath the fusty clothes were the few garments of her own that she had taken to Nottinghamshire. The false bottom was in place and she lifted it out, relieved to see the box for the dueling pistols. Both weapons had been cleaned, polished and packed away, which meant she could return them as soon as possible.
But there was nothing else in the trunk.
The pages of her book were missing. They had been in the trunk when she had left that chamber. They could not have been forgotten in the desk or overlooked. She went through it all again, and again, even with the certainty that the pages were not there.
Their absence could only mean that the Duke of Haynesdale had kept them. There were no thieves in his household, and he would have overseen the packing of her belongings.
How dare he lay claim to her property and her work! There could only be one reason for his choice, given his disapproval of the work. He thought to halt its publication by destroying her manuscript.
All good opinion of Damien DeVries was banished in that moment. Had he burned the pages? Esmeralda would wager that he had. In fact, she could envision him, sitting before the fire in his bedchamber, feeding one page at a time into the flames and watching each be reduced to ashes. His smile would be one of satisfaction at a task well done and when each page was no more than cinders on the hearth, he would sleep soundly.
Vexing man! Esmeralda paced her chamber with a fury she had not felt since Jacques’ demise. Why were men so determined to meddle? Why did they feel such compulsion to control the activities and choices of women?
Do not contact me had been the duke’s final instruction. There was no prospect of that. They would not even be as distant acquaintances, to Esmeralda’s view. The man might as well be dead.
He could not destroy the words in her own head, though. No, Esmeralda would write it all again. She would write more advice, building out the volume to a veritable tome.
And she would see it published, no matter what the price.
The Duke of Haynesdale’s disapproval would not stop her.