Lady Lucy's Lover Read online

  But try as they would, the numbers did not correspond to the letters of the alphabet. D, for example, should have corresponded with 4, but it did not.

  The Duke tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his teeth. “There must be something important here,” he said. “Perhaps he had a favorite book?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Guy never read anything. I do not think he had been very well educated.”

  “Do you mind if I take this back to London with me when I leave tomorrow?” asked the Duke.

  “No, of course not,” said Lucy, feeling sad. She had hoped somehow that he would have decided to stay a little longer. On the other hand, he did not love her. Only witness how courteously aloof his behavior had been since he arrived.

  “I think we should retire, Giles,” said Ann suddenly.

  “Eh, what? Night’s young, m’dear.”

  “And I’m tired,” said Ann, giving him a loaded look and jerking her head in the direction of the Duke and Lucy.

  “Oh, what? Eh? Oh, I see. Well, of course, I’m tired myself. You will excuse us, Lucy, Habard?”

  Lucy flushed delicately. “Since His Grace is leaving us tomorrow, perhaps we should all retire?”

  “I did not say anything about leaving early,” murmured the Duke, his eyes on the thick diary in his hands.

  Ann whipped her smiling and chuckling husband out of the room and Lucy looked at the Duke rather helplessly. If he did not care for her and only wanted to marry her because of a lot of malicious gossips, then she wished to be shot of him.

  But he had once kissed her so passionately. Men, on the other hand, had mysterious lusts which women were supposed to tolerate, but not understand. Lucy raised her little hand to her suddenly hot face. Perhaps she had been rationalizing love into lust.

  The Duke looked up suddenly and studied her flushed face.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked abruptly.

  “I was thinking about lust,” said Lucy, and then blushed so hard she felt as if she had been dipped in boiling water.

  He looked at her thoughtfully and then stretched out his long legs and leaned his head back against the wing of the chair.

  “About whose lust, I wonder?” he murmured. “Yours or mine?”

  Lucy made an embarrassed little movement with her hands. “My unruly tongue,” she said wretchedly. “I was merely considering the difference between men and women.”

  “When it comes to lust, there is no difference,” he said.

  “But love…?”

  “Ah, love. What is your definition of love, Lucy?”

  “Oh, caring for someone,” she said slowly. “Feeling comfortable when they are there, and… and unhappy when they are not.”

  A log shifted and fell in the grate. The wind howled in the chimney and another fire-castle crumbled into ruins.

  “And that is how you felt about your husband?”

  “Yes, no… I don’t remember.”

  “Do you feel comfortable when I am present?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know. You make me feel… awkward.”

  His face suddenly was lit with that characteristically sweet smile of his and she felt her legs beginning to tremble.

  “Lucy,” he said gently, studying her from under his heavy lids as he leaned his head against the worn gold brocade of the chair, “do you not feel what lies in this room between us at the moment? It is there, humming and throbbing. I was worried, you see, that all feeling was on my side. But your breast is rising and falling in such a delectable way, and there is a treacherous little blue vein beating at the base of your neck….”

  “It is the heat,” said Lucy, studying the floor. “The fire is very hot, you see.”

  “Yes. Very hot.”

  “And… and I think we should retire….”

  “By all means.”

  She stood up suddenly, looking down at him in quick disappointment. She had thought he meant… oh, she did not know what she hoped for.

  She crossed the room and stood beside his chair, looking down at him. He raised his eyes and looked full into hers, something in the back of his silver gaze holding her trapped.

  He slowly held out his hand, palm upwards.

  “Then take my hand, Lucy,” he said gently, “and say goodnight.”

  Lucy slowly put her hand into his, feeling the strength of his long fingers as his hand closed over her own. A fire seemed to run up her arm and course through her body. Helpless, buffeted by strong emotion, she looked down at him, a glint of tears shining in her eyes.

  “If our joined hands can cause such tumult, Lucy,” he said huskily, “only think, my sweeting, the delights of our joined bodies.”

  Lucy suddenly thought of her yearning sweetness during her courtship with Guy, followed by the thrashing, tumbling disillusionment of the marriage bed. She looked at him sadly, her high color fading and leaving her very pale.

  “You should not talk to me thus, Your Grace,” she said primly. She tugged her hand free and marched to the door, her head held high.

  She put her hand on the knob and then slowly turned and looked at him. He had risen to his feet and was standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed in thought.

  “I have it!” he said, his face clearing. “It is all very simple. What a fool I am!”

  “What?”

  “I love you, you silly widgeon. I have not been in love before and I am not in the way of saying it. I also have my pride and did not want to wish a rebuff and so proposed marriage on a business footing. But one of us must be brave. So here is my love, Lucy, and my heart, and my soul with it. Will you take it?”

  “Oh, yes, Simon,” gulped Lucy, rushing into his arms with such force that she nearly knocked him over. “Oh, yes.”

  His arms closed about her like steel bands as his mouth descended on hers. He kissed her long and hard until they both were shaking. Lucy’s fair hair was tumbled about her shoulders and the fichu she had modestly knotted over the low bosom of her dress had been sent flying across the room.

  Exploring hands, restless hands, demanding, possessive mouth that moved so bewitchingly over and in her own, senses screaming for fulfillment… and yet when he murmured, “A more comfortable place to continue, I think,” she went rigid in his arms, all the conventions crying out that it was a sin to lie with him without the blessing of the church.

  He gave a little sigh and put her from him, looking down at her with a tender, amused smile. “We will just have to marry in secret, and very soon—as soon as possible. Then when your year of mourning is over, we will be married again with great pomp and circumstance.”

  “I’m sorry. You must think me a prude,” mumbled Lucy, putting her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shirt frill.

  “I think you a darling.” He smiled. “I must go to London tomorrow. There are certain matters in Town that demand my attention. Will you come with me?”

  “Ann and Giles have asked me to spend some time with them,” said Lucy shyly. “I could follow you in about… oh… two days’ time.”

  “Very well. I will take the mysterious diary with me. Now, kiss me goodnight, Lucy. The Courtlands are giving a ball. Remember, I first saw you at their house? I will meet you there… on Thursday. Oh, Lucy, I love you so very much….”

  It was a merry party that set out for London two days later. Ludy was aglow with love and Ann and Giles were delighted with their young friend’s happiness.

  Lucy had made a tender farewell to the Duke the morning after she had accepted his proposal of marriage. It was wonderful to know that she would be seeing him again so soon, wonderful to think of walking into the Courtlands’ ballroom and seeing him, waiting there.

  The day before their own departure had been marred by an unexpected visit from Mr. Jerry Carruthers. He had claimed a close friendship with Guy and had said that Guy had kept certain letters arid papers which he now wished to reclaim.

  As the c
arriage jogged and rattled on its way to London and Ann and Giles both fell asleep, Lucy found herself puzzling more and more over Mr. Carruthers’s strange visit.

  Mr. Carruthers was a big, burly young man who affected the worst of the Corinthian style. He wore a belcher neckerchief knotted around his throat in place of a cravat and had many whip points stuck in his lapel. His leather breeches and riding boots had been spattered with mud when he had arrived, and yet he seemed to take pride in sitting down to luncheon in his dirt. He ogled Lucy quite dreadfully and paid her a great deal of overwarm compliments until Ann Hartford had called him to heel with a sharp remark, begging him to remember his hostess was a widow.

  Immediately all fawning solicitation, Mr. Carruthers had begun to tell a great many sentimental stories concerning his great friendship with the late Marquess, which had all rung false.

  Lucy could only be glad that she had burned all Guy’s love letters, for she had at last to give in and allow Mr. Carruthers permission to search Guy’s desk. He had eventually appeared downstairs looking… relieved, yes, relieved was the word for it, thought Lucy. He had immediately announced his intention of departing.

  As he stood in the hall, making his adieux, he had said, “Well, I must have been mistaken, or Guy must have burned my papers. He certainly left nothing incriminating.” And “incriminating” had been a strange word to use.

  “Unless, of course,” Giles Hartford had said jovially, “all that nonsense about what Guy knew being of national importance means anything.”

  Lucy frowned. That was when Mr. Jerry Carruthers had rounded on her, loomed over her, his eyes hard and bright, and demanded, “What is it? What is he talking about?”

  Why Lucy had all at once decided to lie, she did not know. But she had flashed Giles a warning glance and had said lightly, “Oh, Mr. Hartford was funning.”

  “You are sure?” Mr. Carruthers’s face was very close to her own and he had grasped her arm.

  “Yes, indeed,” Lucy had snapped. “You were just leaving, Mr. Carruthers.”

  And so he left, looking over his shoulder at her all the while. There was something about his stare, something about the sinister hunch of his shoulders, that caused Lucy to call out lightly, “You need not look so, Mr. Carruthers. Mr. Hartford was in jest.”

  “Look like what?” he demanded, one hand on the pommel of his saddle, ready to mount.

  “Why!” laughed Lucy. “Like the first murderer.”

  And that was when Mr. Carruthers had muttered, “You know,” and then he had flung himself into the saddle and had ridden away.

  It was all very strange, thought Lucy wearily. No doubt Simon would decipher Guy’s diary, and find that what the late Marquess had considered of national importance was the measurement of Miss Harriet Comfort’s left ankle.

  She shrugged. Mr. Carruthers was part of the past, part of a boorish section of London society she wished to forget. The swaying and jolting of the carriage soon lulled her and very soon she was asleep.

  They stopped at a posting house for the night, Ann and Giles electing to retire early so that they could proceed with their journey at first light in the morning.

  But Lucy could not sleep. She was overcome with a longing to see Simon again, overcome, at the same time, with a strange dread that somehow she would not.

  Her maid had contracted a severe chill a few days before and so Lucy had decided to do without the services of a maid until the woman was well again. She was about to rise from her seat by the bedroom fire and prepare for bed when there came a scratching at the door.

  Lucy opened it to reveal the landlord. “There’s a gentleman below, my lady,” he said, handing her a card with one corner turned down.

  Lucy held up the bed candle and read the inscription, “Mr. Jerry Carruthers.”

  She bit her lip. “Tell Mr. Carruthers I am retired for the night,” she said.

  “I dunno he’ll listen, my lady,” said the landlord. “Said it was urgent.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Lucy crossly. She swung her cloak about her shoulders and followed the thick-set figure of the landlord downstairs.

  Mr. Carruthers was waiting in the small hallway. His eyes flickered strangely in the candlelight as he watched her descend.

  “I am so sorry to inconvenience you, Lady Standish,” he said smoothly.

  “Well, it is rather late, Mr. Carruthers. How on earth did you know I was resident at this inn?”

  “I had to see you,” he said, ignoring her question.

  He was dressed very plainly and formally in black coat and knee breeches. His hair was powdered and he looked more like a country parson dressed in his best than the swarthy Corinthian of a few days ago. Furthermore, he was wearing a small pair of steel spectacles, behind which his black eyes looked blacker and more fathomless than usual.

  “I have news of your husband,” he said rather breathlessly.

  Lucy paled. “I think you are a little elated, Mr. Carruthers. May I remind you my husband is dead.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said impatiently. “It is staggering news about something he found out. Why he was killed.”

  “Then tell me,” snapped Lucy.

  “I can’t… not here. It is too public. If you could step into my carriage for a moment… it is in the inn yard.”

  Lucy hesitated. The need, however, to find any scrap of news that might clear her name, might clear Simon’s name, was tempting.

  A noisy burst of laughter came from the tap.

  “See,” he said eagerly. “Anyone might hear us. Come. It will only take a minute.”

  “Very well,” said Lucy, drawing her cloak tightly about her shoulders.

  Outside, the night air was bitter cold. A small moon gave hardly any light at all. Hoar frost glittered on the cobbles of the inn yard.

  “Your carriage, sir?” demanded Lucy.

  “My silly man must have left it on the road,” replied Mr. Carruthers, putting a hand under her arm and urging her forward.

  Just outside the inn yard, a light traveling carriage was standing under the black shadow of a stand of trees. The blinds were down and the carriage lamps were unlit.

  Lucy suddenly knew that something was very wrong. She turned and looked towards the inn and then back again at the carriage.

  “No, Mr. Carruthers,” she began firmly. “I think I will return to—”

  But that was as far as she got. A savage blow struck her behind the ear and she tumbled forward unconscious on the ground.

  Jerry Carruthers put the small bludgeon that had felled her back in his coat pocket and stooped and picked up her light body with ease.

  He carried it to the carriage, jerked open the door, and tumbled the unconscious body onto the floor inside. Stooping over Lucy, he quickly gagged and bound her.

  Then he hurried back to the inn.

  The landlord listened gravely as he explained that Lady Standish was leaving to make an urgent call on a sick friend in the neighborhood. Should her friends ask for her, this is what they were to be told. But if they did not, why, there was no point in waking them.

  “And what name shall I say, sir?” asked the landlord. “I took your card to her ladyship but I don’t recall the name.”

  Jerry, who had already hoped that the landlord could not read, smiled and said, “Parsons. The Reverend Parsons.”

  “Very good, Mr. Parsons,” said the landlord. “I’ll tell Mr. and Mrs. Hartford, should they be asking.”

  Jerry Carruthers bowed and walked back out of the inn, thinking furiously.

  He had told Barrington long before that he was afraid the Marchioness of Standish might find some evidence among her husband’s papers that would implicate him in the murder of the Prime Minister, not to mention Sir Percival Burke and the Marquess of Standish. Barrington had given his orders. If Lady Standish showed any signs of suspicion, then she must be killed.

  Now she had, but kill her he could not. Mr. Carruthers found, somewhat to his amazement, that
he could not kill a woman. He had already explained as much to Barrington after his headlong flight from Standish, and so Barrington had smiled and given his instructions. Lady Standish was to be taken to Li, Li would dispose of both Lady Standish and her remains, and then they could be comfortable again.

  But Mr. Carruthers finally knew that the suspicions would never end. Barrington was mad. Barrington had gone slowly mad after Erskine had not been elected as Prime Minister and so all hopes of a peerage had gone.

  But Barrington was sane enough to realize he still held Jerry Carruthers in his power. Jerry thought of his wife and how she would react if certain information and letters reached her.

  He shuddered more over that thought than he did over the idea that Barrington would surely find a way to turn him over to the authorities for the murder of the Prime Minister if he did not carry out his orders.

  By the time he had left Lucy’s still-unconscious body with Li, the leaden dawn was streaking over London and a few flakes of snow were whipping though a biting, howling wind.

  Mr. Barrington lived in a crumbling house on the Surryside, set a little apart from the huddle of tenements which crouched around it by a half-acre of weedy garden.

  Again, Mr. Carruthers was amazed at the insanity of the man who had hoped to become a lord and yet who elected to live in such squalid surroundings as these.

  Mr. Barrington himself answered the door. He had lost weight and his clothes hung on his body; drooping pendulous pouches of flabby skin swung on either side of his pursed mouth.

  But the usual joviality was there, albeit this time mad and hectic.

  “Well, is the deed done?” asked Mr. Barrington. He stumbled ahead, up the creaking stairs as the rising wind tore at the old building.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Carruthers curtly. “Li will see to the rest.”

  “Good, good, we will have a drink.” Mr. Barrington pushed open a door on the first landing and led the way into a parlor, unfurnished except for a deal table and two rickety chairs.

  He poured out two measures of gin from a green bottle into thick, greasy tumblers and stood with his back to the window, blocking out most of the light.

  “Your health,” he said, raising his glass.