Chapter Sixteen

  5 May 1811

  Lulu hummed to herself as she perused the plate before her.

  She really should not get too accustomed to this. Not that there was anything wrong about sitting in a duke’s drawing room—her drawing room. Or having elevenses by herself, spring sunshine pouring through the windows. Or eating a huge amount of cake—

  Fine, perhaps the cake was excessive. But Lulu had never met a woman like Mrs. Winder, the housekeeper, for baking.

  “Really, Mrs. Winder, you must stop!” Lulu said with a smile at luncheon. At least Samuel was with her now, though he planned to go out soon and meet someone of his Edinburgh acquaintance. “You will force me to let out all my gowns, and—”

  “Oh, we couldn’t have that, Yer Grace!” the housekeeper said in shocked astonishment.

  Lulu sighed with relief. The cakes the housekeeper—her housekeeper—kept supplying were absolutely delicious, so moreish she was having difficulty leaving any on the plate for the footmen to clear up at four o’clock each afternoon.

  “Oh, we couldn’t have you letting your own gowns out,” Mrs. Winder continued, scandalized. “You’re a duchess! You’re the Duchess of Chantmarle—we have a maid for that!”

  All too late, Lulu realized the outrage Mrs. Winder was obviously feeling was nothing to do with baking, and everything to do with needlework.

  “Ah,” she said helplessly. “But—”

  “No wife of mine is having her gowns altered because of cake,” Samuel said firmly, rising from his seat and bestowing a kiss upon her forehead.

  Lulu relaxed. At least Samuel understood—

  “No, send her to the modiste,” he said cheerfully as he reached the door. “Tell her the Duchess of Chantmarle can have whatever she likes.”

  Lulu’s stomach turned. “Have whatever I—”

  “Yes, we must ensure you keep yourself in the manner of your dignity, Yer Grace,” Mrs. Winder said in a half maternal, half reproving tone. “We can’t have Society saying—well.”

  The housekeeper’s cheeks pinked as Samuel left the room. Lulu looked at her hands.

  It wasn’t rare that she was reminded just how unusual she was. A duchess, and with not a drop of blue blood in her veins! Lulu could hardly imagine what people in Edinburgh were saying. And farther afield—the news of their marriage must have reached London by now.

  Lulu shivered. The very thought of what those scandal sheets could contain!

  “I’ll have the afternoon tea spread for you in the drawing room at three o’clock as usual,” Mrs. Winder said, attempting to smooth over the awkward moment. “Is there anything else, Yer Grace?”

  Not for the first time, Lulu had to remind herself the woman being referred to as “Your Grace” was not some other lady in the room . . . but herself.

  “No, thank you,” she said softly. “Three o’clock. Excellent.”

  The strange thing was, Lulu was finding it rather challenging to fill her time. It was only an hour and a half from the end of luncheon to the beginning of afternoon tea. Though Lulu was loath to ever complain about a plentitude of food—not something she had been accustomed to these last few years—it did make things rather awkward.

  The most awkward thing, of course, was that she did not seem to be able to conduct her day in the manner she would wish. “Where are you going, Your Grace?” was such a common phrase in her hearing now, Lulu was starting to despair that she might never be permitted to leave the house by herself. No matter which servant asked, politely if a footman or maid, sternly if Fitzhugh the butler, Lulu had to smile weakly and say the only thing she could. “Oh, nowhere.”

  Nowhere. It was true: she could go absolutely nowhere without, it appeared, an escort!

  “But it’s perfectly common,” Samuel had said fairly only last night, as Lulu had attempted to explain this particular frustration to her husband. “You’re a duchess! We can’t have you gallivanting all over Edinburgh on your own!”

  “But I gallivanted all over Edinburgh on my own but six days ago,” Lulu had tried to point out. “It is not as though I am another person—I know my way about perfectly well!”

  “It is not a case of navigation, it is a situation of safety,” Samuel had said darkly.

  Lulu had flushed. Was it possible he had guessed?

  She was sure Mr. Gregory and Mr. Gillingham were absolutely furious she had managed to slip their clutches. Why, their blackmail was hardly going to work now, was it? No one would believe such terrible things of the new Duchess of Chantmarle or her family.

  No, she was free. Free for the first time in years.

  But she was determined to give them the last and final payment. She had been attempting it the very first time she had seen Samuel, and she must do it still. She had to close that door to that part of her life.

  “Being a duchess, you could be kidnapped and held to ransom,” her husband had continued seriously. “No, I am sorry, Lulu. I can’t have you wandering about the place, liable to be snatched at any opportunity.”

  Lulu sighed as she sat in the drawing room the next afternoon and cut herself another slice of cake. Well, why not? It was delicious, and she had nothing else to do.

  Besides, Samuel had made it perfectly clear she could be any size, any shape, and he would still wish to rip her gowns from her.

  A slow smile crept across her lips. Perhaps she would go to the modiste after all. In the few days they had been married, Samuel had managed to destroy two perfectly good gowns. Not that she was complaining.

  A noise in the hallway made Lulu look up. There was only one person in this house who walked like that—bold strides that echoed loudly even if he wasn’t wearing boots. Only one person in the world.

  “Samuel Dellamore, come in here this instant!” Lulu called out with mock severity.

  Samuel poked his head round the door, forehead puckered with concern. “Anything amiss?”

  “Greatly,” Lulu said gravely.

  He stepped into the room swiftly. “Dear God, what is it? You are unwell—you are sick. You have received bad news. Mrs. Winder—”

  “I am in desperate need of assistance with demolishing this cake,” said Lulu airily, gesturing to the mound of chocolate cake which already had two slices cut out of it. “Or I fear Mrs. Winder may serve it to me for breakfast along with my smoked herring.”

  Samuel snorted as he dropped onto the sofa opposite her plush armchair. “Not a chance! Though my valet warns me that many more afternoon teas with you, and he shall have to remove a tuck to my breeches.”

  “A true disaster,” said Lulu conversationally, cutting him a slice of the cake, which he accepted. “It’s a good thing I am so in love with you that I couldn’t care less how many tucks need to be removed.”

  Her heart skipped a beat as Samuel grinned and met her eye.

  How was it possible? To meet a man and know, without a shadow of a doubt, he was a good man? To be certain he would never harm her, forsake her, offend her, or rebuke her? To feel safe, for the first time in years, in the presence of another?

  Lulu could not understand it—but then, perhaps she did not need to. Perhaps just being with Samuel was enough.

  He was munching quite happily on Mrs. Winder’s cake. “So, how is the day of the Duchess of Chantmarle going?”

  Lulu groaned as she placed her plate on the console table beside her. The console table that was probably worth more than all the money she had ever possessed. Put together.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said.

  “What, the Duchess of—”

  “You used to just call me Lulu,” she pointed out. “A perfectly serviceable name.”

  “I suppose it is,” said Samuel, still grinning. “But you are a duchess.”

  “And you’re a duke,” Lulu retorted, her smile utterly irrepressible. “So should I be calling you the Duke of Chantmarle every—”

  “Oh Lord, no,” he replied as she laughed. “No, I take your point. Fine. How has your day been going, Lulu?”

  A smile was enough for now, Lulu could see, as Samuel tucked into his delicious chocolate cake. But it would not be sufficient for long. How could she convince or cajole her husband to permit her to leave the place without multiple servants accompanying her?

  Beyond the fact that it was most strange to be never alone, Lulu knew she had to see Mr. Gillingham and Mr. Gregory soon. They would not wait forever. Heaven forbid they take it into their heads to come to the house!

  Lulu’s stomach twisted painfully as ice slid into her heart.

  No, that would never do. She had worked hard to keep that part of her life completely separate from Samuel. He wouldn’t understand—or perhaps he would. Maybe one day, she would feel safe enough to explain it to him.

  But only when it was over. And it wasn’t quite over yet.

  “My day has been strangely monotonous,” Lulu said aloud. “Or I suppose, not strangely. I shouldn’t expect anything less, when forbidden from leaving without—”

  Samuel groaned. “Not this again!”

  “When are you going to learn that you married a woman, not a porcelain figure?” Lulu said, trying to inject mischievousness in her voice. If she could only make him see. “I don’t want to spend my life cooped up here!”

  “Then go out, take one of the maids with you,” Samuel retorted, finishing his cake. “I really must congratulate Mrs. Winder, that was—”

  “But you go out without a chaperone,” Lulu pointed out.

  He snorted at that. “Of course I do! I’m—”

  “A man.”

  Samuel frowned. “A duke. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  Lulu swallowed. Nothing, if she could help it. Would Mr. Gregory and Mr. Gillingham be foolish enough to attempt something on the life of the man she loved, merely because she was no longer willing to be their little pawn?

  Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  The fact she did not know was more than sufficient grounds to be determined in getting their final payment to them.

  “I am afraid you are going to have far too much to do here, at any rate.”

  Lulu blinked. Now that was a nonsense. “To do here? What on earth could I—”

  “You are the new Duchess of Chantmarle, and half of Edinburgh is desperate to meet you,” said her husband with a wicked glint in his eye. “Are you ready to face Society?”

  Now that was a challenge she had not considered. Lulu sank back in her armchair, both astonished and appalled at the suggestion. “What—you mean, host afternoon tea?”

  “Afternoon tea, luncheons, dinners, card parties, music recitals—the lot,” said Samuel happily. “You know, I think I’ll have a second slice of cake—awfully good, isn’t it?”

  Lulu did not respond.

  Afternoon tea, luncheons, dinners, card parties, music recitals? Surely he was joking. Samuel could not expect her to do so much, host so much, when she was still learning how to permit a footman to place a napkin on her lap? Resisting the urge to push the man’s hands away and issue him a sharp slap had been rather difficult.

  Lulu knew, deep within her soul, that she could not be expected to be a hostess, in the grandest sense of the word. Could she?

  “Now hang on a minute,” Lulu said firmly as the door to the drawing room opened and Fitzhugh stepped in. “You cannot think I can—”

  “Your letters from the afternoon post, Your Grace,” interrupted the butler firmly, holding out a silver platter to Samuel upon which lay three letters.

  Lulu worked hard to keep her face impassive.

  It was because the old man was unaccustomed to change, Samuel had told her. That was why he frequently acted as though she were not there.

  “Oh, thank you, Fitzhugh,” Samuel said carelessly. “You were saying, Lulu?”

  Lulu almost smiled at the grimace that passed across the butler’s face. Still, her husband supported her, even if Fitzhugh did not like it.

  “I was saying, I cannot think why you believe me suitable to host such things,” she continued, as the butler left the drawing room and Samuel lazily looked over the letters in his hands. “I’ve never hosted so much as a riot before, and—”

  “Oh no, we can’t have a riot,” Samuel said vaguely. He was scanning a letter he had opened, then snorted. “No, Lady Romeril would have a fit.”

  Lulu tried not to smile, but it was impossible. There was something so endearingly charming about the way Samuel could not bear to wait a single second before reading his letters once they were placed in his hands. The thought that he wouldn’t know, even for a minute, who had written to him!

  The open letter was cast aside, as was a second. Even after only a few days of being his wife, Lulu recognized the handwriting. “Your steward again?”

  “The man thinks it vital I know every breath my horses take, and I tell him again and again I simply do not care,” said Samuel with a shrug. “My apologies, I know I’m being rude. I’ll just read this last one, then you’ll have my full attention.”

  And with that, he turned the final letter over to crack the seal.

  Lulu’s heart stopped.

  When it started again, it was thumping most erratically, causing pain to shudder through her.

  She knew that handwriting. Of course she did, it was the handwriting she had dreaded for almost a year.

  Mr. Gregory.

  “No idea who would be sending me a letter in the afternoon penny post,” Samuel was saying airily as he started to unfold the letter.

  Everything appeared to be slowing down. Lulu couldn’t understand it, but it was taking an age for him to open the letter, yet the additional time did not seem to be giving her any more opportunity to think of a solution.

  That Samuel must not be permitted to read whatever Mr. Gregory had written in that letter was beyond doubt. The icy grip around her heart told her that much.

  But how she was supposed to stop him, Lulu did not know.

  That was perhaps why her instinct overrode all sense.

  She grabbed it.

  Just in time, Samuel flicked it away. “Now just what do you think you’re doing?”

  In someone else’s mouth, the words might have been a reproof, but Lulu saw to her horror that Samuel was laughing. Did he think this some sort of game?

  “It’s meant for me,” she said, her mouth dry. “Honestly, Samuel, I—”

  “It says the Duke of Chantmarle on the front, not the Duchess,” Samuel said, holding it just out of her reach and chuckling. “Lulu!”

  But it was no game. Dark, bitter panic was rising. If Mr. Gregory had written to Samuel, there was nothing positive in that letter. It would only bring her ruin, and pain, and Samuel too.

  She had to get that letter.

  “Please, Samuel, I—”

  “Let me read, then we can discuss how many soirees you will host before we return to London,” said Samuel with a grin, pushing aside her hand and lifting the letter to his eyes.

  “I’m begging you Samuel—”

  But it was too late. Lulu knew it, the moment his name had once again left her mouth. Samuel’s gaze had sharpened on the letter before him, his eyes scanning across it, and there was such a look of horror draining into his face that she knew it was too late.

  “You . . .” Samuel breathed.

  Lulu closed her eyes, just for a moment, as though that could stop what was happening—but it was no use.

  “You—is this true?” he demanded, flinging the letter at her.

  Lulu clutched at it with trembling hands and read the few lines Mr. Gregory had penned in an untidy scrawl.

  It was not pleasant reading.

  Your Grace,

  I am sorry to inform you that the woman you have taken to wife is a spy—a traitor, in fact. She has been passing secrets from the military barracks at Edinburgh Castle to an informant. Information which has been to the great detriment of the British Army.

  Sorry to bring you such dire news—

  A friend

  A friend indeed. Neither Mr. Gregory nor Mr. Gillingham could ever be described as—

  “I said, is this true?” came Samuel’s firm voice.

  Lulu swallowed as she dropped the letter into her lap and looked up at her husband. The man she loved. The man she trusted, and who had trusted her.

  A man whose trust she had evidently somehow betrayed.

  “Y-Yes,” she said, hating her voice’s quiver. She stuck out her chin. “And I did it because—”

  “I don’t care why you did it, the fact is that you—dear God, this whole time, you were right under my nose!” Samuel exploded, rising from his seat and pacing to the fireplace.

  Lulu’s heart cracked as she saw how unwilling he was to look at her. Yes, it was a betrayal of her country—but she’d had no choice. And besides, it had occurred months before she had ever met Samuel. Why should he care so much about—

  “I’ve been such a fool,” muttered Samuel, leaning against the mantlepiece and hanging his head in abject grief.

  Lulu rose, hardly knowing what she was doing but certain if she was close to him, she could make him see. “I didn’t want to do it! They—”

  “But you did it,” snapped Samuel, turning to her with such a glower, Lulu stepped back. “You did it, didn’t you? Passed secrets from our army, our country, into French hands? Didn’t you?”

  His last two words were spoken with such pain, such finality, Lulu did not know how she still managed to stand. “Yes,” she breathed.

  Samuel groaned, turning away once more—and it was that inability to look at her that cut so deeply into Lulu’s heart. She had never betrayed anyone before. She had always protected those she loved—indeed, she had only done this because of love!

  Perhaps that would help him understand—maybe then, Samuel would see.

  “I thought you were a courtesan!”

  Lulu blinked. Oh, of course. Why had she ever let that misunderstanding continue? It was just lie upon lie, that was what she had created.

  Samuel’s face was pale. “You . . . you weren’t, were you?”

  She swallowed, hating that she could disappoint him so many times over in just a few minutes. “N-No, I have never been a courtesan. I let you believe that because the truth—”