Page 95 of The Scarred Duchess
“To crash the Lambrook carriage.”
Reeves almost bit through his tongue as his temper flared hotter than he ever remembered. He saw red and blindly lashed out until his rage was sated. He panted as his fury dwindled and closed his eyes to reclaim himself. With his calm restored, he looked at the duke.
Or, what was left of the duke.
I’ll find me some clean clothes and be on my way.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Buckingham House
Two days later, the Marquess of Egremont walked as quickly as dignity allowed and propriety permitted. He burst into the room, looked about, and locked the door. He handed Mr Bartleby a letter.
“You have two passes of the Clock Tower to complete a transfer of patents.”
Mr Bartleby looked up at Egremont. He set aside the written summary.
“Come, my dear Francis,” said the elderly man. “Tell me what has happened.”
Egremont told him of the heinous doings of the Duke of Somerset and his son, Marquess Beauford. Their depravity towards their servants and tenants, the gaming and debauchery. Now, the infamous betting on a genteel debutante’s honour, the favourite of Queen Charlotte no less.
“You say Miss Bennet is the daughter of a former senior officer of His Majesty’s Royal Horse Guards?”
Egremont nodded and continued his tale of the remanding of the peers to Marshalsea, the duel on Hampstead Heath. “A letter with the entire story found on the corpse there.” He cleared his throat. “Clearly, the marquess killed the duke and then took his own life.”
Mr Bartleby gave him an amused look. “The Duke and the Marquess were most likely murdered in their own beds.”
“Perhaps, but the palace shall put forth the former rather than cogitate on the latter.”
“I have work to do, then,” offered Mr Bartleby.
“Yes, you do, my dear friend.” He turned back at the door. “I shall be here at the last bell of the designated time. Please do not disappoint Their Majesties.”
He closed the door, leaving the sound of furious scribbling behind him.
At Matlock House, Jane stared at her latest gift. A wisp of memory rose up.Why does this remind me of home?
She examined thelilium candidum—a pearl white boat-shaped flower supported aloft dark green leaves. The plant usually grew in pairs or trios, but her admirer had altered this beauty to a single perfect white lily. She relaxed and assessed the natural perfection of the petals, the verdant green of the leaves.
Dare it be true? Does such constancy exist?
“John.” She said his name as if it were a prayer. Since her presentation to Queen Charlotte, he had occupied all of her thoughts. She missed him. She missed home.
She closed her eyes. “Let meseehim. Let him come to me,” she prayed.
A knock on the parlour door interrupted her. Mr Clarke handed her a card.
Lord John Seymour, Earl of Lambrook, Seymour House, London
Jane pressed the card to her breast and looked to the Heavens.
“Thank you.”
John entered the calling parlour then stopped. “You are a masterpiece in blue.”
Jane looked up at the looking glass atop the hearth. She wore a day dress in cascading shades of blue; her light-blue bodice sat upon a top layer of a darker hue. That top skirt bled into a richer blue mid-skirt, which fell into a darker shade nearer the hem. These were the very fabrics she had purchased when assembling her trousseau to marry John. Before the accident. Before her injuries had forced her to turn away from him and the life she had led and had planned to lead, by his side.
Blushing, she looked at his kind, handsome face. “You are very kind.”
