His mother was right. The kindest thing Leath could do for Eleanor was to let her go, let her find a good, respectable man who would love her and give her the life she deserved. Except that she was no longer a virgin. Guilt cut deeper every time Leath thought how he’d wronged her. Guilt that came with a wicked serve of pleasure as he recalled her body opening to his.
His mother was right about something else—Leath loved Eleanor and given his steadfastness, the affliction was likely to be permanent.
“James, you’ll break my heart,” his mother whispered. She looked deathly tired now that the brief vitality fueled by temper faded.
“Forgive me, Mamma,” he said softly, kissing her forehead and stroking back the strands of graying blond hair that escaped her cap.
Her expression didn’t lighten. They both knew that an appeal for forgiveness wasn’t capitulation.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nell finally reached the end of the meandering drive leading up to Fentonwyck. This huge baroque palace was the family seat of His Grace, the Duke of Sedgemoor. The man the papers described as Leath’s implacable enemy. The man she prayed would expose the marquess’s crimes to public scrutiny.
She was shivering and soaking wet and her feet had turned into blocks of ice hours before she’d passed through the neat village clustering around the estate’s elaborate wrought-iron gates. Her mare had started limping a good ten miles ago and now trudged at her side, head lowered in misery. After Nell’s night with Leath, riding had felt like the worst torture—until she’d tried hiking through the storm.
“Not far now, darling,” she whispered to the horse, although the wind whipped her words away.
On Nell’s other side, the taciturn gatekeeper who braved the weather to accompany her stumped along, holding his lamp high. He wore oilskins and carried an umbrella. He’d offered one to her, but it provided little protection.
Still, she appreciated his kindness. He’d suggested she wait in the gatehouse while he fetched the duke, but Nell couldn’t bear any delay. She itched to lay her evidence before Sedgemoor at the earliest opportunity. She prayed that the letters had survived the journey. They were packed in straw and sealed in a saddlebag.
/> “There be the house,” the gatekeeper said, the first words he’d spoken in what felt like hours. “His Grace be entertaining.”
Nell gulped, stopping abruptly at the sight of the long façade. Even through the rain, Fentonwyck’s magnificence was visible. A symmetrical row of windows, nearly all lit despite the late hour. A curved double staircase rising to a balustraded terrace.
When she’d found those damning letters, she’d thought only as far as escaping Leath and fleeing to his enemy. Now that she stood outside this enormous house, feeling friendless and bedraggled, she quailed from facing a pack of supercilious aristocrats.
“I don’t—” she began.
But the gatekeeper slogged on through the rain and didn’t hear. Nell mustered her fading strength and followed him. Her mare—she hadn’t even had a chance to ask Leath what the animal’s name was—sensed that shelter was near because she moved more readily when Nell tugged the reins. The beast had been a gallant companion and Nell had suffered more than one pang over forcing the fine-bred horse to struggle on through exhaustion.
To her relief, the man took Nell around the back into a yard surrounded by outbuildings. Everything dissolved into movement and noise so that more quickly than she’d ever imagined, she found herself wrapped in a towel and dripping onto the tiles in a small office near the kitchens. Somehow through all the activity, she’d remembered to grab the saddlebag. Her numb fingers had trouble holding it. There was a fire in the hearth, but the heat returning to her skin was more painful than restorative.
Vaguely through her daze, she heard the door behind her open. “Miss Trim, you needed to see me urgently?”
Unsteady with cold and dread, she slowly turned. She’d never seen the Duke of Sedgemoor, although sketches of him often appeared in the papers. She couldn’t mistake that the tall, serious man regarding her with a mixture of interest and wariness was familiar with command. Leath conveyed the same air, although physically he was more heavily muscled.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, dipping into an awkward curtsy.
His hand caught her elbow as she struggled to rise. “Dear girl…”
“You’ll curse me for interrupting your evening,” she said, although that was hardly the most important thing she had to say. Tiredness and heartbreak made her stupid.
His grip was firm and strangely comforting. “That doesn’t matter. Rest now and we’ll speak tomorrow.”
She heard kindness, then reminded herself that she’d believed Leath was kind. These powerful men defied her instincts. “No, I must do this now.”
Shivering, she thrust the wet saddlebag forward. The room started to recede in an alarming way and she had a superstitious terror that if she failed at this last challenge, she’d fail altogether. “You must destroy the Marquess of Leath.”
The duke’s eyebrows arched in astonishment and he stepped back without taking the letters. “James Fairbrother?”
Bone-deep bitterness emerged through her exhaustion. “Is there another?”
“My dear Miss Trim…”
“He’s ruined hundreds of innocent girls, including my sister Dorothy. I want…”
She paused. Even through her desperation, she understood that one did not tell a nobleman of Sedgemoor’s standing what one wanted and expect him to leap to obey. She licked her lips and tried to straighten, but shudders racked her. She clutched the towel more closely, but it was as sodden as her dress and offered no warmth. She edged toward the fire, hoping to bolster her strength. Her head pounded and she had difficulty grabbing a full breath. Still, she made herself go on.