Page 19 of The Truth about the Duke
“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 tobreathe 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.”
Chapter Eight
“Ido not know what to do!”
Sophie held up one hand as Lydia paced up and down in the drawing room. “You first must calm yourself.”
“Calm myself? I cannot!” Throwing up her hands, Lydia shook her head, her breathing growing faster as she tried to fight the panic in her chest. “The Duke of Melrose is going to write to The London Chronicle to demand an address for the author of that piece and they will give it to him!”
“They will not.” Sophie smiled gently as Lydia turned to face her friend, the calm expression on her face doing nothing to quieten Lydia’s frayed nerves. “What name did you give to the Chronicle?”
Lydia swallowed. “Mr. Adam Smith.”
This made Sophie’s smile grow. “A very plain name, I must say.” She patted the seat beside her to encourage Lydia to join her but Lydia did not, feeling everything in her burning with fear and fright. “You made it quite clear in your letter that you had to be protected and The London Chronicle will do that. They have done it in the past and they shall do it again.”
“How can you be sure?”
Sophie smiled gently. “Because I am friends with another young lady who, at one time, did the very same thing as you, albeit in a different form. The London Chronicle did not reveal her name to anyone. Besides which, The London Chronicle has ladies guiding its publication and the like and they know very well what might occur should they give out your name to anyone who asks, even though you have asked to be known as Adam Smith! They will not do it, not even for a Duke. I can assure you of that.”
A slow winding relief began to pull at Lydia’s overwhelming concerns, beginning to settle within her as she nodded slowly, her eyes closing for a moment as she fought to find a steadiness within herself.
