Page 28 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)
N ow that a date had been set for leaving Sweet Clover, Freddie felt frantic to do all the things she had planned before they departed.
“I will miss the Honey Festival,” she said, sitting with her appointment book on her lap, rather than her needlework. They were in the library after dinner, discussing what needed to be done in the time remaining.
It had been more difficult to work on Plimpton’s wedding present since he had begun foregoing his after-dinner ritual of port and cigars. Her husband had become a bit sneakier in the evenings, drifting behind Freddie’s chair for no apparent reason, as if he were trying to catch a glimpse of her work. She never would have expected him to be driven by such curiosity.
The pleasure of his company had more than made up for the minor inconvenience of having to hide her work. Besides, she had plenty of time during the afternoons to work on it and was almost finished.
“We will come back again next year,” Plimpton reminded her, looking up from his never-ending pile of papers.
“I know we will, but it might be a different season and there will be new things that I will want to do.”
“We will come back any time you wish,” he assured her.
“I hope the weather cools so that we can have our picnic at the maze before we leave,” she fretted. Plimpton had decreed it was far too hot for her to be out of doors in the afternoon and Freddie had to agree. That meant they’d had to cancel it several times now.
“Perhaps we should have an evening picnic?” he mused.
She perked up. “I like that idea.”
“I do, too.” His eyelids lowered.
As usual, her body tightened at the subtle heat in his gaze and the air seemed to crackle.
“I will see what I can arrange, Winifred.”
When he turned his attention back to his work, she felt like she could breathe again. How did he do that to her so quickly and effortlessly?
Shaking her head, Freddie flipped through the pages of the appointment book, pausing when she saw a notation she had made weeks ago regarding Lady Rebecca.
She looked up, suddenly struck. Her plans for launching her new stepdaughter next Season would need to be altered now that she was with child. “Plimpton?”
“ Hmm ?” He was glancing from one document to a thick ledger that was open beside it, as if checking something. He wore spectacles and Freddie thought they made him look scholarly. She did not share that observation as she doubted that he would find it flattering given the few comments he had made about his less than enjoyable stint at university. Not that he had said much.
It occurred to her, not for the first time, that her husband did a great deal more listening than talking. Especially when it came to personal subjects.
Meanwhile, he knew all the sordid details of her marriage, not just the part about Sedgewick’s treatment of Miranda. And he had known of her falling out with Wareham and Sophia. He knew—well, to put it bluntly—he knew the worst of her past.
Freddie, on the other hand, knew next to nothing about him. Certainly, she knew nothing about his marriage, which had lasted for two-thirds as long as she had been alive.
He was a sensual, generous lover and a considerate and intuitive husband. His concern for her relationship with Miranda was an example of how he was always thinking about what would make her happy.
But he was still a complete enigma.
It was obvious he cared about her, and not just because she was carrying his child, although she could sense his interest sharpen when it came to that subject even though he kept his curiosity firmly in check.
That careful, circumspect behavior alone told her more than he himself ever had. It told her that his wife had discouraged his concern or interest in her pregnancy. Perhaps that had only happened after she had lost three children. Or perhaps she had discouraged him from the beginning because aristocratic women considered subject like childbirth and children solely a woman’s purview, and a working-class woman, at that.
She burned to ask him about his marriage, but she did not want to bring that chilly look into his eyes, the one that said she was not allowed into that part of his mind—his heart—and never would be.
It was odd being the reserved one in a relationship. For years, she had been the self-contained strong one, the one all her friends had come to with their concerns, fears, and questions while she had held her own counsel. Not because she hadn’t wanted to confide in somebody, but because they had all struggled with serious problems of their own. None of them had a wealthy brother willing to pay their debts if they could not make ends meet. That knowledge had embarrassed her and kept her quiet. After all, somebody like Miles had shouldered the burden of caring for dozens of family members and a crumbling estate. There was nobody waiting to rescue him with a large allowance and comfortable house if he decided to give up playing at working.
Recently, she had without realizing it shifted her troubles onto Plimpton’s broad shoulders without hesitation.
And he had accepted them with the same quiet grace he did everything.
Love, almost suffocating, flooded her as she regarded him. His normally perfectly groomed hair was mussed and in tufts. As she watched, he thrust the fingers of his left hand through the already disheveled locks, disturbing them even more, still bent in concentration over his desk. He might not be capable of romantic love—and he would eventually lose interest in her physically and take other lovers—but he would always put her needs before his own, of that she was certain. He would do the same thing for their child. And, unlike Sedgewick, he would never, ever banish his son or daughter if they were less than perfect.
Most aristocrats barely even noticed their female children. They barely noticed the male ones other than their heir. But Plimpton carried a locket with his daughter’s miniature next to his heart.
How could Freddie not love him?
But she wished that she didn’t. If she could merely like and respect him, her life would be so much easier. But love? No, love meant the future would likely be a special sort of hell. When Sedgewick had taken other lovers, Freddie had been both relieved and hopeful that he would leave her alone. When Plimpton tired of her and took a mistress, it would kill her. Oh, not literally , but she would be dead inside.
All her life she had hoped for love; now she wished it had passed her by.
Plimpton looked up from his ledger, his eyes distracted behind his spectacles as if he were consumed by some thought. But they sharpened when he saw she was looking at him. “I beg your pardon, Winifred.” He removed his glasses and regarded her with a rueful look. “You said something to me a moment ago and I am afraid I was wrestling with this column of figures and did not hear what you said.”
Winifred shook her head, so emotional she could not even recall what she had wanted to say.
“It was nothing,” she managed. “I was just thinking out loud.”
***
Freddie reread Piers’s brief letter, frowning to herself.
I called at Plimpton House only to learn you and your new husband were on a bridal journey to one of the duke’s smaller holdings.
By now, after several weeks of marriage, you have either forgiven me for my interference or you will hate me forever.
Freddie stopped when she came to that part, her heart squeezing painfully. She should have written to him already; she should have apologized for the angry words she had flung at him that day.
She sighed and turned back to the letter.
Hoping for the former, I will confide the results of my recent search to you.
I have worked my way through the names on the list and have discovered… nothing. At least nothing that will acquit me of the charge of murder. I believe the men whose steps I have retraced after that fateful party and whose lives I have—well, let me use the word ‘scrutinized’ as this is being immortalized on parchment—are innocent of both the crimes of theft and murder.
By scrutinize he meant utilizing unethical or illegal activities like bribery, breaking and entering, stalking, spying, and misrepresenting his identity and lying his way into the households of these men in any way he could. She did not agree with his methods, but to catch a killer it was probably not possible to post an advertisement in The Times.
She continued reading.
While it is possible that my investigations may have failed to turn over some vital piece of evidence, it has not been for a lack of digging. If any of these men are concealing the truth, it will likely die with them.
In any event, I have searched my own soul in the process and have decided this will be the end of my investigation.
Severn has requested that I attend his wedding party before I leave England, so I am staying at Granton Castle until then. After that, I must go, Little Bird, and this time it will be for good.
The words blurred on the page, but Freddie forced herself to finish.
I have accepted Severn’s invitation not because I wish to attend his house party but because I would like to spend my last days in England in your company and staying at Granton Castle together seems the easiest way. If you would rather I take my leave now, I will be guided by your feelings on the matter.
With all my affection,
Piers
She brushed aside the tear that had escaped her tight control and frowned at the postscript.
P. S. please thank your husband for his information but tell him that it came to nothing as the man in question died years ago and his son was unable to offer me any information. Even so, I am grateful to Plimpton for making the effort.
Freddie slowly folded the letter, while inside she felt as if she were collapsing. This was just as painful as losing Piers the first time. Worse, maybe, because she could do nothing to help him.
She set aside the letter and glanced up to find Plimpton’s eyes on her. He made a subtle gesture, without taking his attention off her, and the two footmen quietly left the room.
Only then did his eyes slide to the letter. “I hope it is not bad news.”
“It is from my brother. Piers,” she said, and then felt foolish as Plimpton had been the one to hand her the letter.
He nodded.
“He—he says he will be leaving England after Lord Severn’s house party.” She had to several to clear her throat several times before she could finish. “He will not come back again.”
Freddie was grateful Plimpton did not rush to offer either condemnation or sympathy. Instead, he reached across the table and set his hand over hers. The fact that they rarely touched outside of her bedchamber made his gesture all the more affecting.
“He said to thank you for something you told him,” Freddie said. “What did he mean?”
Unease flickered across the duke’s face, and he withdrew his hand. “It was not much. I recalled something about that house party.”
“What did you recall?”
Plimpton hesitated.
“He mentioned a man who died. Piers said he was able to talk to his son. Which man?” she pressed. “Please, tell me.”
“Why do you wish to know?”
“Why do you hesitate to tell me?” she countered.
His lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “Because I do not want you involved in this matter.”
“Yes, you have said as much before, as has Piers. And I have given my word to him,” she retorted, her temper flaring. “But it is over now—I have just told you as much. Soon, he will be gone from my life forever. Surely you can at least tell me how you helped him?”
Rather than soften at her words, his face hardened. “You have not given your word to me , Winifred.”
“Fine,” she said, having to shove the word through clenched teeth to keep from shouting. “I give you my word that I will not involve myself. That I will not help my brother clear his name of murder.”
He eyed her levelly for a long, uncomfortable moment before saying, “I remembered a man who was at the house party. I had forgotten about him because he was not one of Wareham’s regular friends. Indeed, he was one of mine. ”
Freddie’s jaw dropped. “You forgot your own friend?”
His jaw flexed at her disbelieving, scoffing tone. “His name slipped my mind because he is dead, Winifred. And he has been for a very long time. Also, I forgot about him because he was not there by the time Meecham was dead. He’d been called away on some emergency before all that happened.”
“And you say he was a friend of yours?”
The duke shrugged. “A neighbor and we were of age, so…I invited him.”
“Why did you tell Piers about him?”
“Because I thought it might help.”
“I thought you did not like Piers. I thought you were of the opinion he never should have returned?”
“I am of that opinion, Winifred. But you love your brother and I do not like to see you hurt. So, I offered what help I could.”
Freddie was momentarily distracted by his words.
Plimpton glanced down at his plate, but not before Freddie noticed the slight addition of color to his cheeks. “As your brother said, my information was useless. I suspected as much since Luton’s son could not have been more than ten or eleven at the time.”
“Luton?”
He looked up and Freddie saw a gleam of wariness enter his gaze. “Yes.”
“Baron Luton is the neighbor you meant?”
“Yes.”
She definitely saw wariness. “Ah.”
“Ah?” he repeated.
“Yes… ah .” Plimpton used the word often enough to end conversations he did not care to continue. Why shouldn’t she?
He nodded slightly at something, as if she had spoken.
Freddie thought he might pursue the subject—perhaps even make her to swear not to visit the Luton estate, especially since it was a scant four or five miles away and one of Sweet Clover’s nearest neighbors—but his next words were on a different subject entirely.
“It occurred to me that between the visit to Miranda and the party at Granton Castle there is not much time to go to Whitcombe.”
“What are you saying? That we should stay in London?”
“Perhaps. Or we might go to Granton earlier.”
“But what about visiting the Dowager and Rebecca?”
“My mother has repeatedly counseled me to enjoy my bridal holiday before I am pulled back into estate duties. As for Rebecca, she has been invited to Granton and can meet us there.”
For once, Freddie saw though him as easily as a pane of glass. He was suggesting the change to their schedule so that she could spend more time with Piers before he had to leave. He was thinking of what she wanted and what would make her happy.
“Thank you,” she said. “That is very thoughtful of you.”
If anything, his expression became even more haughty. “You are welcome.”
The rush of love Freddie felt for the emotionally repressed, achingly proper aristocrat across from her almost choked her.
But the guilt she felt at what she was about to do was even worse.
***
Freddie could not help comparing the dilapidated, moth-eaten appearance of Luton Priory with the well-tended, burnished glow of Sweet Clover.
The woman currently pouring tea across from Freddie was perhaps the shabbiest feature of the room they were currently occupying.
Baroness Luton looked up with an apologetic glance when the teapot she had just lifted rattled noisily against the cup she was attempting to fill with a hand that was badly afflicted with palsy.
“May I help, my lady?” Freddie asked.
The other woman’s already stooped shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m afraid even the smallest tasks are beyond me these days.”
Freddie took charge of the tea tray. Scarcely any steam rose from the spout and the silver pot was badly tarnished. The maid who had brought the scantly laden tray had set it down with a jarring clatter, eyeing her mistress with scathing derision before asking if she needed anything else.
As Freddie prepared the weak, tepid cups of tea she wished desperately that she had not made the journey. And not just because of the depressing state of affairs at Luton Priory, a house that was hardly in the condition one would expect if the owners had a fortune in antiquities in their possession.
No, she was regretting her decision because of the nagging shame that she had not only defied Plimpton, but she had brazenly broken her word. Indeed, she had given it with the foreknowledge that she would break it.
Not only had coming to Luton Priory been wrong , but it was increasingly clear to her, once her initial optimism had fled, that finding anything out about a party the dead baron had attended twenty-three years before was not going to be an easy task.
If Freddie could manage to end this uncomfortable meeting within the next quarter of an hour she might be able to return home before Plimpton noticed she was gone.
But would concealing her visit really be any better?
Shame swirled in her belly as she stood and brought the baroness’s cup and saucer to her.
Lady Luton was understandably flabbergasted that the new Duchess of Plimpton had called on her. Especially since the woman had not moved in society for more than a decade, the palsy that caused her hands to shake so badly also confining her to a Bath chair.
“Thank you,” the older woman murmured, the chipped crockery clattering in her hands. “How kind of you to call,” she said for the fourth time. “I rarely get any visitors these days.”
Freddie sipped her awful tea, bit back a grimace, and set the cup and saucer on the tray. “Have you suffered long from your affliction?”
“More than two decades, although it has become worse these past few years.”
“And there is no help for it? Perhaps taking the cure at one of the watering holes? Or would such a trip be too difficult?”
“My physician does not believe such a cure would help.”
Freddie scrambled for some way to get to the point. “You have been a widow for some years?” she asked, wincing internally at the clumsy foray, but Lady Luton did not appear to find her indelicate prying offensive.
“Almost twenty.”
“You have a son, I believe?”
The cup and saucer clattered badly as the other woman tried to set it on the table.
“Allow me.” Freddie sprang up and took the dishes from her; perhaps not all the chips in the China were the fault of the slatternly maid.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Freddie sat. “You were telling me of your children?”
Lady Luton’s pale eyes lowered to her lap, where her hands lay tightly clenched together.
What was the matter with the woman?
As if she had heard her, the baroness looked up. “Luton is my only son.”
“He must be a comfort to you.”
The other woman gave her a look of incomprehension.
“Because you are housebound and cannot travel,” Freddie explained.
“Oh. Yes, he is.”
It was like trying to hold a conversation with an oyster, except the little bits she was managing to extract were hardly pearls.
“I was recently visiting my brother Wareham and he mentioned your husband,” Freddie lied, deciding to go to the heart of the matter.
The other woman reacted as if Freddie had hurled a lightning bolt at her chest. Her wheeled chair jolted violently enough to knock into the table beside her and send the long-suffering cup and saucer to the floor. Even the sound they made was pathetic—not a crash so much as a dull clunk before they broke into a few large pieces.
“Oh, dear,” Freddie said. “Let me clean that up.”
The baroness looked even more horrified. “No! Your Grace, you should not! Please, ring for a servant to—”
But Freddie was already picking up the pieces. The last thing she wanted was an interruption, not when she was getting such bizarre reactions from the woman at the mere mention of Wareham.
“Wareham said your husband once spent a week at Torrance Park,” she hurried on, purposely prolonging the clean up by dropping a few pieces and then mucking up the spilled liquid with one of the frayed table napkins.
Lady Luton stared down at Freddie as if she were an evil apparition that had risen up through the gaps in the floorboards. “I—I do not, that is—”
“Wareham said your husband was suddenly called away—an emergency of some sort.” Freddie paused for a fraction of a second and then took a wild leap. “Before he left, however, he seemed especially fascinated by a chess—”
“Good heavens, what has happened here?” A cool male voice came from behind Freddie.
She pushed to her feet and turned to find a tall, gaunt man of indeterminate age hovering on the threshold, his pale eyes—like his mother’s—flickering between Freddy and the baroness.
“This is Her Grace of Plimpton,” the baroness wheezed shrilly. “Duchess, this is my son, Luton.”
The baron entered the room and shut the door behind him as Freddie deposited the crockery shards on the tray and turned to face him.
He bowed low. When he stood, Freddie saw the expression in his pale eyes.
And that was when she knew she had made a very grave mistake.