Page 17 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

F reddie had barely recovered from the ferocity of Plimpton’s lovemaking when he slowly withdrew from her body and rolled away from her, his feet hitting the floor with two soft thuds.

He bent to pick up his robe and slipped into it, tying the sash in a few deft motions, and then strode out of the room.

Her forehead furrowed at his sudden departure. Had she done something wrong? He had looked even more intense than usual as he had driven them both to pleasure. Was he…angry? Disgusted?

Or was this normal behavior after having carnal relations with a lover?

On the good nights, Sedgewick had passed out for a few moments after his orgasm and then bid her goodnight once he’d roused himself and returned to his chambers.

Perhaps this was the equivalent?

She told herself not to feel hurt by what felt like abandonment. After all, she was the one who continued to insist upon—

“Roll onto your back.”

She jolted at the sound of his voice. “I did not hear you return,” she said stupidly, her body obeying his quiet command.

He knelt on the bed and reached for the sheet she had just pulled up to her breasts.

When she clenched the bedding more tightly, he lifted a cloth for her to see. “I brought this to cleanse you, Winifred.”

“Oh.” She stared, startled by what was an unprecedented action in her experience. “Er, I can—”

“Let me,” he said quietly. Gone was her smiling lover, in his place was the stern, inscrutable aristocrat.

It embarrassed her to think of him doing something so intimate, but she found herself releasing her vise-like grip on the sheet and opening her legs.

For a man who had been attended by body servants all his life, he was remarkably thorough and gentle. His expression was not lascivious, but…caring.

“There,” he said when he had finished, looking up to meet her eyes. “I would draw you a bath, but—incompetent that I am—I have no idea how one goes about heating that much water.”

Freddie laughed, relieved that the hard set of his mouth had softened, taking away some of the severity. “It would take too much time and we should probably be on our way.”

“Yes, it is barely raining now. I will go downstairs and fetch your clothing. There is more water—cold, unfortunately—in that ewer.” He gestured toward the dresser and pushed off the bed.

Freddie waited until he’d padded from the room and then hurriedly tied the sheet around her, although this time it was just hastily draped rather than fashioned into a Grecian garment.

A quick search of the dressing table drawers unearthed a fine ivory comb and brush set. She had no hope of getting all the knots out of her hair, but at least she was able to tame it enough that she could split it into three sections and plait it.

Once she had secured the end with a faded ribbon she’d found beside the brush, she wound the thick rope into a coronet and used a handful of rusty pins to fasten it into place.

She took a step back and grimaced at her reflection; she looked like a woman who’d fallen in a lake, swum for a quarter of an hour, and then engaged in two rounds of vigorous bed sport.

Footsteps on the stairs—booted ones this time—made her turn.

She laughed and then bit her lip.

He gave her a mock chastising look. “Are you making fun of my clothing?”

“Just your shirt,” she said, and then chortled again at his bedraggled neckcloth and badly wrinkled sleeves. “And your cravat.” She glanced at his boots, which were now dull and misshapen. “But I cannot laugh at your boots. They were lovely and now they are ruined.”

He shrugged.

“Were they easy to get on?”

“Yes, but only because they are still damp.”

“Where are my things?”

“I left them in front of the fire as everything is still a little damp.” He smiled wryly. “I found a kettle, figured out how to fill it with water, and have miraculously set it to boil. I thought we might have tea. By the time we are done, your things should be close to dry.”

“I would love some tea. But first let me repair my toga.” She made a shooing gesture. “I will be down in a moment.”

Once she’d tidied her gown and smoothed down the worst of the corkscrews of hair with a damp comb, she decided that was as good as it would get and descended the stairs.

“You are just in time,” he said, gesturing to the teapot and cannister of tea he must have found in the kitchen. “The water is boiling. Tell me, do I put the water or tea in first?”

“Shame on you, Your Grace!” she scolded. “It is always tea and then water.”

He gave her a meek look she did not believe for a moment. “Consider me suitably chastened.”

As the tea steeped, she examined the tray he had loaded and brought from the tiny kitchen. She picked up a cleaver and held it aloft. “What, pray, is this for?”

He gave her a sheepish look. “I thought I would just put some of everything on the tray.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Sit and relax and I will perform the time-honored ritual. How do you like it?”

“Black and strong.”

Once the tea had steeped enough for her, she poured a cup, added a lump of sugar, and set the pot aside to steep a bit more. An optimistic feeling had been building inside her ever since he had returned to the bedchamber with the cloth. Perhaps it really was possible to engage in an affair without a man becoming tiresome? Perhaps she could trust Plimpton not to become high-handed and dictatorial.

Perhaps you might actually ask him a few more questions about that fateful weekend…

Freddie glanced up to find him regarding her with a thoughtful, but relaxed, expression.

Maybe now was a good time?

“What is it?” he asked. “Do I have something on my face?” He squinted down at his hands, which she saw had smudges from the kettle.

For some reason, it was that normal—rather than ducal—reaction which decided her.

“I want to ask you something.”

He immediately looked wary. “Yes?”

“You must give me your word you will not pry into why I am asking.”

He crossed his arms, the gesture pulling the badly wrinkled, shrunken vest until the buttons strained. How was he able not only to look good , but positively delicious?

“What is this about, Winifred?”

Her gaze jerked up at his clipped question and she saw that his eyebrows, which were a few shades darker than his light brown hair, had drawn down over the bridge of his nose, forming a stern V.

“It is not a personal question about you, Your Grace. I just want your opinion on something.”

His eyebrows slowly returned to their normal position, but the tension did not leave his shoulders. “Very well, I will not pry.”

She poured a bit of tea, saw that it was dark enough, and filled the cup before handing it to him.

“Thank you.”

She nodded absently, wondering how to phrase her question. Direct was probably best. “My question is about that party Wareham had the week my brother Piers disappeared.” As Freddie looked into his eyes, she could practically hear doors and shutters slamming shut.

“What about it?” he asked in the most unencouraging tone imaginable.

“Do you recall anything strange about that week? Aside from the murder,” she hastily added.

“Why?”

Freddie flung up her hands. “You just promised that you would not pry!”

“That was hardly prying. I am just…wondering.”

“Well, don’t wonder.”

His jaw flexed as he regarded her, his eyes once again opaque. He inhaled deeply, held it, and then exhaled before saying, “I am afraid that the murder wiped everything else that occurred from my memory.”

Fair enough. “And can you recall any people other than the ones you told me about earlier?”

“I do not recall who I named earlier.”

“Sutton, Weil, Fluke, Jordan, Conrad, Brandon, Wareham, Piers, you, and Meecham.”

His forehead creased at her rapid-fire listing.

“Nobody else?” she prodded.

He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Those are the only ones I can remember. If you want a more comprehensive list, ask Wareham.”

So, that was it, then. It was crystal clear that Freddie would get nothing more from the duke.

“Thank you.” She drained the rest of her tea and began to put the dirty crockery onto the tray.

His hand closed over hers. “You should not be poking around in this, Winifred.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“You are a terrible liar—which is to your credit, by the way—but you needn’t have bothered. Wareham told me last night that Piers returned a year ago and has come back again. I also know he is masquerading as your friend Gregg.” He smiled, but it was not one of amusement. “I thought there was nothing more irksome than believing Gregg to be your paramour. It seems I was wrong.”

She jerked her hand away. “If you knew all that, then why did you ask?”

“I was hoping it was not true.”

“You were hoping that my brother had not come to visit me?”

“Yes. You must know that associating with a murderer—”

“An accused murderer.”

His jaw flexed. “If you are caught associating with a fugitive accused of murder you will go to gaol, Winifred. I would have hoped Cantrell would have more regard for your safety and future than to rope you into some hairbrained investi—

“Hairbrained? Just what do you mean by that? Is he not allowed to prove his innocence?”

He winced at her raised voice, which just made her angrier.

“Oh, you do not care for being shouted at?” she shouted.

“No, I do not.”

“Well, I do not care to be chided by somebody with no right to do so, but it seems I have no choice in the matter. For your information, Your Grace, Piers did not rope me into anything. In fact, he specifically begged me not to become involved.”

“And yet here you are, prying into the matter with as much finesse as a bull in rut. I am at least glad to see that Cantrell’s wishes have as little bearing on your behavior as anyone else’s.”

Her hand closed around the empty cup in front of her.

The duke saw the gesture and shook his head. “If you throw that at me, I will put you over my knee.”

Freddie was almost as furious at herself for the idiotic squeak she made as she was at him for threatening her.

She lunged to her feet, drawing herself up to her full height, desperately wishing she was not wearing a bedsheet.

The duke, naturally, stood, robbing her of even the slight advantage of glaring down at him.

“If you expect me to feel guilty for looking into what is obviously a gross miscarriage of justice involving somebody I dearly love, then I am pleased to disappoint you.”

“A gross miscarriage of justice? You mean the fact that Piers Cantrell escaped the noose? Because you are certainly right about that.”

“You—you—”

“Yes, what am I?”

“I am too polite to say it,” she snapped. “You were probably right there with everyone else accusing him, weren’t you?”

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “For your information, I was right there when it came to helping him escape England and, by extension, justice. And that, Winifred, is something I have regretted ever since.”

All the angry, hurtful words she wanted to fling at him got jammed up together inside her head, which felt as if it might actually burst into flames, she was so furious.

“You were not there,” he went on, his voice as cool as ever even though sparks lit up his gray eyes. “You do not understand the full extent of the evidence against Cantrell,” he said, clearly warming to his subject, his face hard and unforgiving.

“What evidence? You mean Piers waking up in a ditch with a bloody knife? It might have been anyone’s knife—and anyone’s blood, including that of a farm animal. Piers said he never lost consciousness from drink either before that time, or since. It seems to me, Your Grace, that my brother was drugged and the only evidence of him fighting with Meecham was the word of a servant who—”

“ I heard the argument, Winifred.”

She blinked. “But—”

“Meecham and your brother had been behaving like a pair of villains in a bad pantomime from the moment they appeared at Torrance Park, alternately celebrating their good fortune and squabbing over how to divvy up their ill-gotten gains. It was a boiling pot just waiting to spill over. And it did spill over when Wareham informed Cantrell that the pieces had been stolen from Devonshire’s collection. He told your precious Piers not to even think about selling so much as one piece because he would be returning them to the duke. Cantrell stormed away in a rage, his parting words some rubbish about the doctrine of treasure trove and how it belonged to him and him alone and that he would neither hand it over to Devonshire nor share the profits with Meecham. Wareham wanted to go after him that night and retrieve the pieces immediately. I have always regretted that I talked him out of it, counseling him to wait until Cantrell’s blood had cooled and he sobered up.”

Plimpton gazed into the past, his expression of guilt unmistakable. “If I had gone with Wareham that night, we might have thrashed the damned chess set out of the pair of them and they’d have woken up the next day with nothing more than sore heads and a few bruises. As it was, I told Wareham that I would follow Piers home to make sure he came to no harm. I overheard him argue with Meecham, the two of them obviously drunk. I believed they would both pass out sooner rather than later, so I left them after warning the servant to keep an eye on them. You have no idea how often I wish I had stayed there, Winifred. But there is no doubt in my mind that Cantrell fought with Meecham and then killed him, although I suspect it was accidental rather than intentional. Unfortunately, Piers did not remember anything that happened that night, so we will never know.”

The fear that Plimpton might be right only added to Freddie’s anger.

She shoved away her chair, knocking it over in her haste to get away from both the duke and what very well might be the truth.

“You are wrong ! I know you are.”

“Don’t you think that I would like to be wrong, Winifred? Don’t you think I have not seen how this has weighed on my best friend’s conscience over the years? Eating away at him, a constant source of shame and doubt?”

His tone was weary rather than hostile and that, more than anything, was persuasive.

Good God! What if he was right? After all, Piers had said the same thing, hadn’t he? Perhaps she had judged Wareham unfairly all these years? Maybe he really had saved Piers’s life by getting him out of the country.

Thankfully, the duke opened his mouth and stopped Freddie before she could admit her traitorous doubts. “Cantrell should have stayed away, and he deserves whatever happens to him for coming back. Wareham went to considerable expense and effort to stop any investigation into the matter and the man has waltzed back to England, stirring up trouble. Yet again.”

“I suppose you think Sophia did the right thing telling the constable that Piers had returned? Beckam told you that, too, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he told me that last night, as well. Of course I do not agree with what Lady Wareham did. Your brother forbade her to speak of the matter and that should have been enough to stay her tongue.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Oh. I see. It was not wrong of her because it was morally reprehensible, vindictive, and petty, but because she disobeyed her lord and master.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “If one cannot trust one’s spouse, then who can one trust?”

The question stopped Freddie like a stone wall. And it only enraged her more because she happened to agree with him. It took a great deal of effort to muster a sneer. “What a shame that duty does not run in both directions and not just from a husband to his wife.”

“Of course, it works both ways.”

The man was almost impossible to argue with! “Why do I find that so hard to believe?”

“A lack of imagination?” he retorted coolly, and then ruined a splendid set-down by saying, “I apologize. That was rude, combative, and unhelpful.”

This was less satisfying than arguing with oneself.

Freddie shoved the tea tray across the table with a loud clatter. “I was going to tidy our mess, but you should continue on your journey of self-discovery and add washing crockery to your list of exciting exploits.” She turned on her heel and snatched her clothing off the chair backs where he’d considerately set them to dry. In her haste, she yanked one of the chairs over and it struck her toe.

“Damnation!” she yelped, hopping inelegantly on one foot.

The duke approached her, immediately solicitous. “Here. Let me have a look,” he said, dropping into a crouch and reaching for her foot.

Freddie glared down at him. “Do not touch me,” she hissed, pleased when he recoiled. She snatched up her boots and stockings and stormed up the stairs.

For good measure, she slammed the bedroom door.

***

Wareham put down his coffee cup, a frown marring his high forehead. “I wish you were not leaving tomorrow, Winny.”

Freddie was eating breakfast with her brother, who—with Doctor Madsen’s approval—had joined her in the breakfast room for his first meal that was not broth or scrambled eggs.

“I should have left today—or even yesterday—when it was clear you no longer needed constant nursing. Or much nursing at all, really.”

“I could have a relapse.”

She laughed. “You will not relapse. Doctor Madsen said your recovery is so astonishing he is considering writing a medical article about you.”

“That is because of your care, Winny. If you leave—”

“You will be fine. And Jane and Bessy have learned all I have to teach on the subject of nursing. I have already been here longer than I should have stayed away. I have a life—I have things that need to be done.”

He sighed, reached across the table, and took her hand. “I am only teasing you; I hope you know that. I just don’t like to see you leave after we have just patched up our differences.” He cocked his head. “We have patched them up, haven’t we?”

“As far as I am concerned, we have.”

“Excellent. Then you will—”

“I will not move under your roof, nor will I accept your money, Dicky. Please,” she said when he opened his mouth to argue. “Let us enjoy this last day without arguing.”

He compressed his lips and nodded. “Very well. You win—this time. But I will not stop offering.”

“And that is your right,” she said, spreading marmalade on a piece of bread and eying the chafing dishes, contemplating having a bit more of the coddled eggs.

“Winny?”

“ Hmm ?” she said, savoring the rich flavor of the marmalade, which was made from oranges from Wareham’s own succession house.

“Have you and Plimpton had a falling out?”

Her gaze slid back to her brother. “Falling out? How could we, when we never had an, er, falling in .”

He smiled briefly at her attempt at humor. “You have not gone riding with him since the day you were caught out by the rain. And then you suddenly decided to have dinner with me in my chambers—which I have greatly enjoyed, of course—rather than eating with him in the dining room. As for cards, you have played piquet with me every evening, ignoring poor Plimpton entirely.”

“I came here to see you Dicky, not the duke.”

“True, but I thought—”

“I know what you thought. And that is the main reason I have curtailed my activities with him. When will you understand that I do not want a husband, Dicky? You and I will have a falling out if you continue to throw every unmarried man in the vicinity at my head.”

“I promise I will not do that. But Plimpton is not every man, Winny. Would just anyone have brought you to me? Not only that, but he was steadfast in making sure I had a doctor who wouldn’t kill me. Plimpton is a man in a thousand—five thousand, even—honorable and generous and—”

“Wareham, stop.”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “I want you to know it pains me deeply to see two people who are perfect for each other and one of them refuses to accept the wisdom of such a match.”

“Duly noted,” she said. “Now, might we speak of my nephews and nieces? If you are well enough, why don’t we see if they can come by this evening?”

But as her brother chatted with her—and eagerly endorsed her plan for an evening of adolescent games and performances on the pianoforte for her nieces—Freddie’s willful mind went back to the man she had just told Dicky not to mention.

The days since the boathouse incident had been awkward, to say the least. But she had to commend Plimpton for making his presence scarce when she and Wareham were together. At least that way her brother could not embarrass them by constantly attempting to throw them together.

She doubted Wareham had curtailed his schemes when talking to the duke any more than he had when speaking to her, but at least she didn’t have to be with Plimpton while she endured it.

She would have left two days ago if not for the fact that Dicky’s coach had still not returned and the last thing she wanted was to accept another favor from Plimpton.

That afternoon by the lake had been delightful—at least the first three-quarters—but it had been the last half hour that had sealed their fate. Freddie could never care for a man who would condemn her beloved brother without even considering the possibility that he was innocent.

As much as she had enjoyed her liaison with him, it was all they would ever have.

And if the thought of never spending time with him again caused a heavy ache in her chest she would get over it by soldiering grimly onward. The same way she got through everything painful in her life.