Page 69 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Lady Juliet looked up at him with doe eyes. “I am afraid I have no idea what you mean.”
Frederick gritted his teeth. Short of hauling Lady Juliet outside by the arm and threatening her for answers—which was the kind of gossip that would most certainly make it outside these gallery walls—there was little else he could do. With this little stunt, Lady Juliet had made it clear just how heartless and deluded she really was. Frederick knew there was no way he would ever get a straight answer from her. He narrowed his eyes.
“What exactly were you hoping to achieve?” he asked, his voice low and dark. “Veronica is my wife. And nothing is going to change that.”
“That is true,” she said airily. “Nothing is going to change that.” She took a step closer to him. “But you ought to have chosen me, Your Grace. I would have made a far better duchess than a woman who spends her time covered in paint and chasing children around a classroom. I may not be able to change the fact that the two of you are married, but I will see to it that your gallery is surrounded in scandal. Just as your marriage will be.” She smiled slyly. “And who would expect anything less? After all, her family has a history of such things. And so does yours.”
Frederick felt rage burning up from his toes. He clenched his hands into fists and ground his teeth together so firmly that pain shot through his jaw. “Get out,” he hissed. “This second. And if you ever come near me or my wife again, I will see that you live to regret it.”
Lady Juliet gave him a sweet smile. “As you wish.” She dropped into a deep curtsey. “I wish you all the success in the world with the gallery, Your Grace.”
Frederick stared after her as she gestured to her father with a wave of her hand, then fluttered out the open front door, the false smile still plastered to her face. Ignoring the curious stares of onlookers, he charged up to the easel and snatched the portrait of Juliet. He marched out into the alley where Veronica was still huddled up against the wall.
“Why are you bringing that out here?” she hissed. “Have you not hurt me enough?”
Frederick drew in a breath, forcing himself not to react to his wife’s accusations. He could not deny her distrust in him stung. But there was a part of him that knew he could not blame her. He had shown her coldness again and again. Each time they had taken a step closer to each other, he had been all too quick to pull away.
If Veronica was going to trust him implicitly, he would have to be the kind of man that deserved blind trust. And for the first three months of their marriage, he had been anything but. He had been hot and cold; impossibly changeable. Desperate for her one minute, and then pushing her away the next.
That changes now.
Provided he could restore Veronica’s trust in him at all. And judging by the murderous look in her eyes, that was not going to be easy.
“I am bringing this portrait out here because this is where it belongs,” he told her firmly. He tossed it carelessly up against the wall of the alley. Hopefully it would not be long before a stray dog lifted its leg on the damn thing, or a downpour came and turned it to mush. “Lady Juliet is gone,” he told Veronica. “And I have made it clear that she is never to come near either of us again. Now I am going to go and find the painting that I actually intended to present today.” He swallowed heavily. “And I hope you will come with me. Help me find it.”
Full of blind—and slightly desperate—hope, he reached his hand out toward her. Veronica looked down at it for several moments, without speaking. She nodded faintly. “Very well. I will help you find it for no other reason but because others’ works depend on this exhibition.” Her voice was thin and expressionless. She did not take his hand.
But at least, Frederick thought, she was coming with him. And right now, he would take all the small wins he could get.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Frederick charged back inside the gallery and flew from room to room, searching desperately. He was all too aware of how foolish he must look, peering under tables and couches, and even behind paintings as his desperation grew. He went outside and circled the townhouse, in case someone had taken the portrait outside. Veronica followed him at a distance, a closed-off expression on her face that made it impossible to read her.
As they stepped back through the front door, George Roland burst into the foyer. “Have you tried the cellar, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice low.
Frederick frowned. “What are you talking about? This place doesn’t have a cellar.”
“It does. In the room that used to be the kitchen. It’s hidden inside the old pantry. Easy to miss. I saw it when it came to deliver my last paintings yesterday.” He lowered his eyes. “Two of your staff were here making preparations and they allowed me to look around the place. I hope you don’t mind.”
Frederick gave him a brisk nod, then hurried away, not bothering to reply. Behind him, he could hear Veronica thanking Roland, then her footsteps click-clacked up behind him.
The room that had once been the kitchen was tucked away at the very back of the house. It still contained an old range and the pantry, which Frederick had quickly searched earlier. But he stepped inside and looked again at the room.
“A cellar?” he repeated. “How could we have missed that?” He shook his head. “I think Roland is imagining things.”
“Here. Look.” Veronica pointed to a small square of floorboards inside the pantry. She stepped down on it lightly, and the boards groaned beneath her weight. “It’s a door. Looks as though the handle was removed some time ago. But it’s possible someone could have forced it open,” she looked sideways at Frederick, “and hidden your painting down there.”If that is what really happened…She did not need to say it. Frederick could hear the doubt in her words. And it made him more determined than ever to find the portrait.
He snatched the fire poker from beside the range and prized up the floorboards. A small, square trapdoor opened to reveal a narrow staircase reaching down into a dark cellar.
He gave Veronica a crooked smile. “Well. Would you look at that…” He glanced around hurriedly, snatching a lamp and tinderbox from atop the range. He lit the flame and held the lamp out in front of him. Stepped carefully onto the staircase. He held out a hand for Veronica, but she gathered her skirts in her fists and made her way down into the cellar without assistance.
The smell of earth and stale air gathered in Frederick’s throat as he panned the lamp around the small space. The cellar was barely tall enough for him to stand, with an earthen floor and bare stone walls. The room was empty—except for a covered picture frame leaning against one corner.
Frederick hurried toward it. “This must be it.”
He peeked beneath the cloth, holding his breath in hope. And there was his wife’s face, beaming back at him with that impossibly bright smile. A smile he very much hoped he would see again soon.
Relief flooded him at the sight of the portrait. He let the cloth cover it again and stepped back. He gestured to Veronica. “Thisis the painting I intended to unveil today.”
