Page 8 of The Truth about the Duke (Whispers of the Ton #5)

Chapter Seven

E arlier that same evening.

Henry smiled into Lady Judith’s eyes. She was, he considered, very beautiful indeed, though he did consider her conversation a little lacking. At times, he caught her glancing at her mother or her father, perhaps in the hope that they would help guide the conversation when she could not. Though, mayhap, she was merely a little overwhelmed by his presence and he could well understand that. He was a Duke, after all.

“And I hear you are well acquainted with our host for this evening, Your Grace?” she asked, as Henry nodded. “Are you related to the Marquess of Montrose?”

Henry smiled. “I think we are vaguely related but in truth, I cannot recall the connection. He hails from Scotland but comes to London for the Season every year, or so I have heard! His son, Lord Gellatly, is nearer to my age whereas Lord Montrose himself was well connected to my father.”

“I see.” Lady Judith did not seem to know what to say now, her eyes drifting away from him, and Henry, seeing it, let a small frown dart across his forehead.

“Might I interrupt? I know it is dreadfully rude of me but all the same, I feel as though I must do so!” When another gentleman came to join the conversation, Henry felt himself a trifle irritated, particularly when Lady Judith’s eyes lit up with clear delight at seeing him. Henry tried his best not to let his scowl etch itself across his face in the way that it wished, reminding himself that this gentleman had just as much right to speak to Lady Judith as he.

“Lord Telford, are you acquainted with the Duke of Melrose?”

Henry waited for the fellow to shake his head, only for his eyebrows to lift as the gentleman nodded.

“Yes, I am.” He bowed his head. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Good evening, Lord Telford.” Having no knowledge or insight coming to him about this fellow, Henry inclined his head and chose to step back. “I shall excuse myself and leave you to your conversation. Good evening.”

Keeping a smile on his face, Henry made his way from Lady Judith’s side, thinking to himself that he might go to call upon her to take tea the following day, only for another young lady to come towards him. Henry frowned, only to realize that he was already acquainted with this lady.

“Lady Markham.” Glad that he had recalled her name, Henry bowed. “Good evening.”

“Good evening, Your Grace.” There was a slight tightness in her expression and, much to Henry’s surprise, she came to step a little closer to him, her eyes searching his. “Might I say, Your Grace, that I am surprised to hear that you would speak so callously and unfeelingly to a young lady such as Lady Lydia?”

The unexpected nature of her conversation made Henry’s stomach twist sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

“She has told me of what you said to her yesterday, at Hyde Park,” Lady Markham continued, her eyes flashing. “Is it true that you stated her parents ought to be ashamed of her, merely because she did not show any sort of enjoyment at being in your company?”

A flush crept up Henry’s neck and into his face. “I do not think that my conversation with Lady Lydia is any of your concern, Lady Markham.”

“And I think it is.” With tenacity, Lady Markham tipped up her chin, narrowing her eyes just a little. “Lady Lydia is my dearest and closest friend and when I find out that a Duke has made her cry with his harsh words, I am forced to do something!”

She was crying? Shame burst like a torrent over Henry’s heart and he looked away, his face warm.

“You may not like the way that Lydia spoke to you, Your Grace, for no doubt, you expect every young lady to be filled with deference and delight at your company! However, that does not mean that you ought to speak with any sort of harshness towards her, does it? Or do you think that your standing means you can say what you please without hesitation?”

Henry shook his head. “No, I certainly do not think that.”

“Then might I suggest that you consider what I have said and, thereafter, make an apology if you feel as though it is merited?” Her eyes still glinting with clear upset and anger which, Henry knew, was directed solely at him, Lady Markham took a step back. “Lady Lydia is a very learned and passionate young lady and it is, to my mind, a great shame that her interests are not encouraged, simply because it is deemed incorrect for a young lady to have such passions.” She tilted her head a fraction, her eyes gleaming. “I wonder if your opinion of her might change, Your Grace, if you were to consider a perspective other than your own.”

A little irritated by Lady Markham’s forwardness and her pricking questions, Henry’s eyebrows fell heavily over his eyes. “And what do you mean by that?”

Lady Markham smiled but it held no warmth. “Only to say that to have such determined, fixed opinions means that you might miss out on a great deal, Your Grace. If you were truly to understand who Lydia is, then you might discover that while she is different from every other young lady in the ton , she is different from every other young lady in the ton – and that is a most remarkable thing.”

Leaving Henry with his head filled with her final words, Lady Markham turned on her heel and walked away from him, making Henry frown after her. Yes, he knew that Lady Lydia was unlike any other young lady in London but that was why he disliked her so, was it not?

Unless she is suggesting that my dislike is misplaced.

Still frowning, Henry rubbed one hand over his forehead, gesturing to a nearby footman to bring him a drink. He was not used to his opinions being challenged in such a way but perhaps he was wrong to be so stagnant.

And I was certainly wrong in how I spoke to Lady Lydia yesterday. Sighing inwardly, Henry shook his head. I shall have to find her and apologize.

“Ah, there you are. I did wonder if you were in hiding.”

Henry frowned as Lord Kendall came towards him. “Hiding?”

His friend nodded. “Yes. After what was written in The London Chronicle?”

A weight dropped into Henry’s stomach. “There was something in the Chronicle written about me?”

His friend’s eyebrows lifted. “You did not see it?”

“I did not.”

“Oh.” Lord Kendall shrugged and looked away. “It is nothing significant, of course.”

Henry grimaced. “You are going to have to tell me what was said.”

Lord Kendall glanced at him. “It was nothing of any importance. The writer has chosen to consider a certain area of England to write about and does so by not only mentioning the area itself and historical places of interest and the like but also a particular family. You were the chosen one for this article it seems.”

There were no family secrets that Henry was afraid would be revealed though all the same, a trickle of sweat ran down his back. “What was written about me?”

With a small shrug, Lord Kendall struggled to meet his gaze, telling Henry that there was more to this story than his friend wanted to mention.

“Kendall.”

With a long sigh, Lord Kendall glanced back at him and then looked away again. “There was some information about your late father, your mother and extended family as well as a little about your predecessors going back through history. That was interesting, of course, but I did not know the story about the stolen heirlooms. That was… difficult to read though the author did state that it was entirely whispers and nothing more.”

“Stolen heirlooms?”

Lord Kendall nodded, his eyes rounding. “You do not know the story?”

Panic gripped Henry as he looked into his friend’s face, filled with surprise, and felt fear shoot through him. “I must read this for myself.” Grabbing a footman, he demanded a copy of The London Chronicle, turning back to wait with Lord Kendall. Everything in him seemed to be strung tight, his whole body burning as he waited for the footman to bring him the paper.

“It is only a story, recall,” Lord Kendall said, quietly as Henry fought to keep from pacing in the drawing room, aware of just how much scrutiny it would bring. “A rumor. A whisper. That is all.”

Henry said nothing, practically snatching the newspaper out of the footman’s hand when it returned with it. It did not take long for him to find the article, his breathing becoming quicker by the second as he read through the lines.

‘ There is a story that the Duke of Melrose’s heirlooms were lost and lost to a friend of the previous Duke. It is said that the late Duke of Melrose was returning home one evening, only to be stopped by a highwayman who stole the family heirlooms from him – heirlooms that he was bringing home from London. In the ensuing fight, the Duke struck the highwayman’s face with his blade and escaped with his life! For any who believe it, the late Duke stated that the culprit was none other than the late Lord Harleton though this was never proven.’

“What?” Henry read over the lines again, trying to understand them, trying to make sense of all that he read. How could it be that his father had believed such a thing for years but had never told him of it? And how had the writer of this article found out when he had not had any awareness of it?

“I – I must – ” Stalking blindly through the gathered crowd, Henry made his way through them with as much dignity as he could, suddenly determined for solace and solitude. This was an utter shock, for though he had always been told that the heirlooms had been lost but never that they had been stolen! He had not heard about the highwayman, had not been told that there had been a suspected theft and certainly had not understood that his father had believed it to be his close friend that would be akin to Henry accepting that Lord Kendall had done something truly dreadful! No, he could not accept it.

But if they are lost, then is it not my duty to find them again?

Pushing open the first door he saw, Henry strode into another room, lit only by the fire. Pushing one hand to his forehead, he paused for a moment, only to turn t make to shut the door, desirous only for his own company at present.

“Your Grace. If you would excuse me before you shut the door, then I would be grateful.”

Henry started violently, his hand dropping to his side as he looked into the gloom, trying to ascertain who it was.

His stomach dropped. Why does she have to be here, at this moment? “Lady… Lady Lydia?”

“Melrose, are you quite all right?”

Henry glanced to his left, seeing Lord Kendall hurry in. His eyes went to Lady Lydia, rounding a little as though Henry had deliberately stepped inside to be in her company. That, or mayhap he was surprised at her lack of chaperone.

Lady Lydia pointed to the door. “Forgive me, Lord Kendall, I was just about to take my leave. The Duke stepped into the library without being aware of my presence.”

With a small smile, Lord Kendall nodded. “You sought some solitude in here, mayhap?”

With a nod of her own, Lady Lydia made to quit the room but something in Henry forced him to step forward, to catch her hand in his. “Wait.”

It was a command he gave her, of that he was well aware, but her presence here was the only opportunity he had to apologize for what he had done. Yes, his mind was filled with all that The London Chronicle had said but at the same time, he had not forgotten his responsibility here.

“I – I need to apologize.” Henry closed his eyes as he spoke, feeling each word burning on his lips. He wanted to speak his apology quickly, desired only to have it spoken so that he might instead concentrate on the story in The London Chronicle. “I spoke harshly to you and I must now apologize for it.”

“Your Grace?”

Confusion filled her voice and Henry opened his eyes, gritting his teeth for a moment over the fact that he would have to explain precisely what it was he meant. “In the park, at the fashionable hour. I spoke sharply and without consideration and I can see that it must have been hurtful, despite your seeming lack of regard for my words.” He held her gaze, trying his best to prove, in both his standing and his tone, that he was genuine in his desire to express regret over his actions. “I sincerely apologize, Lady Lydia. I ought not to have said anything of the sort to you.”

Silence was his only answer – and for some minutes, at that! Lady Lydia’s eyes widened and Henry found himself a little struck by just how vivid they were. They were like emeralds, gleaming and pure. His breathing became a little steadier as he looked into her eyes; her presence seeming to calm him for some inexplicable reason. Henry felt his heart slow to a steadier pace, seeing Lady Lydia’s expression soften just a little.

“I am grateful to you for your acknowledgment of that.” She glanced away for a moment. “I will not pretend that I was not affected by what you said, Your Grace.”

A fresh guilt ripped at his heart. Clearly, he had caused her more pain than he had recognized. “It will not happen again.”

With another long look, she finally turned to make for the door, only to pause. “Might I be so bold as to ask whether you are quite well, Your Grace?”

Reminded of what it was that troubled him now that his apology was completed, Henry let out a low exclamation, pushing his fingers into his hair as he bowed his head. “No, I am not, Lady Lydia, but that is not your concern.” He had not meant that to be harsh in any way but nor did he want her to trouble herself with matters that were not for her to know of.

“I am well aware of that, but I am only expressing concern for you.”

Glancing at her, Henry rubbed one hand over his eyes again, aware that she had snapped back at him. Trying to gentle his voice, he shook his head. “No, there is nothing you can do.” He looked to Lord Kendall, who was now frowning heavily. “Nothing any of you can do. It is only I who can discover if what has been written is true.”

Lady Lydia pressed her lips together for a moment, then asked him the question he had seen in her eyes. “What has been written?

With a flick of his fingers, Henry began to pace, quite certain that almost everyone – Lady Lydia included – would have read what was in The London Chronicle by now. “You know of what I speak, I am sure. For everyone in the ton appears to have read The London Chronicle today.”

“Oh.” The awareness in her voice made him grimace though he continued to pace, watching her now and again and wondering why she did not take her leave.

“It is only a story,” Lord Kendall said, breaking the silence. “You did not know about this? About any of it?”

“No.” Henry stopped pacing, looking desperately around the room. “Is there not some whisky or brandy here?”

“Let me get you something.” For whatever reason, Lady Lydia was the one to move to get him what he desired, rather than Lord Kendall. She appeared to be quite determined to stay with them, clearly desirous to linger in this conversation rather than return to the others, though Henry chose not to question it.

“I remember you mentioned the heirlooms,” Lord Kendall said, as Lady Lydia poured three glasses, making Henry’s eyebrows lift. “But you never went into detail about them.”

Henry scowled, looking down into the fire rather than at his friend. “I was always told that the heirlooms had gone missing and that I was not to speak of them. But this story now states that my father had them stolen by a highwayman?” He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, his breathing quickening again. “I do not understand why he would not tell me something like that, why he feared telling me the truth.”

“Your Grace. Here.”

Turning his head, Henry looked into Lady Lydia’s face, taking the glass from her. Her eyes were filled with questions, worry playing about her mouth as she caught one lip between her teeth.

He did not understand why.

“I thank you.” Taking the glass from her, he looked at the glass in her hand. “You also?”

The tone of surprise made a shadow dance across her expression. “Yes, Your Grace,” came the reply. “I, on occasion, prefer a little glass of brandy rather than the usual tea or ratafia.”

Henry considered this, about to state that he did not think it proper for a young lady to drink brandy, only to shake his head to himself and turn his gaze away. Was this not precisely what Lady Markham had suggested he do? That he keep his thoughts entirely to himself on such matters?

Besides, he thought to himself, that is not something I need to be considering at this time.

“It is only a story,” she said, after a few moments, repeating the very same words as Lord Kendall. “That is all. A story. It does not mean that it has any truth to it. I am sure that the author thought only of the entertainment in the story rather than hoping it would cause you any distress.”

Throwing back his brandy in one gulp, Henry caught his breath as fire poured into his lungs. “You do not understand, Lady Lydia,” he rasped, barely able to look at her as he fought to breathe evenly. “The family heirlooms – diamonds – have been missing for many a year but my father would never tell me what happened. All he said was that they were lost.”

“And maybe that is still true,” she answered, evenly. “A story is nothing but that: a story.”

Unsure as to why he was speaking with her so openly but finding himself unable to do anything but that, Henry shook his head. “I have always found myself frustrated and upset that there was nothing more to be said about the diamonds. Whenever they were mentioned, my father would close his mouth tightly and refuse to say a single word. Even when he became ill before he died, he refused to say anything to me about them. I do not know how they became lost, when and where such a thing took place – I know nothing whatsoever! And now to hear this story, a story I have never heard before in my life, makes my head spin with thoughts and wonderings and confusions!”

“You could write to your mother and ask her what she knows, if anything?” Lord Kendall came a little closer, concern clear in every inch of his expression. “I do not think I have ever seen you like this, Melrose. I knew that the lost heirlooms troubled you but never to this extent.”

“I have sat on my frustration for many a year,” Henry muttered, setting his glass down on a table before sinking into a chair, putting his head in his hands as energy drained slowly out of him. “I cannot quite believe that this has happened. How did the author – whoever it was – find out such a thing when I knew nothing of it?”

Lord Kendall came to sit beside him as Lady Lydia slowly stepped back, seeming to desire the shadows rather than any sort of nearness.

“I do not know but you can ask him yourself,” Lord Kendall answered. “The name of the author is written in The London Chronicle. All you need do is find him.”

“Then I shall,” Henry stated, his hand curling into a fist before slamming into his open palm. “And I shall not rest until I have answers.”