Intimate Betrayal Page 5

  The dowager duchess patted the seat beside her, and Morgan sat down. “Imogene and I are just finishing.”

  Morgan inclined his head toward the duchess’s companion. “How are you today, Mrs. Glyndon?”

  “Just fine, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glyndon replied breathlessly.

  “Will you join us for tea, Imogene?” the dowager duchess asked politely.

  Mrs. Glyndon wisely declined. Although a woman well into middle age, she always became a bit flustered in the presence of her employer’s handsome grandson. Besides, she knew the dowager duchess preferred spending time alone with the duke.

  “Then we will see you at dinner,” the dowager duchess said in a dismissive tone.

  “So tell me, my dear boy,” she said after Mrs. Glendon left the room, “to what do I owe this delightful surprise? It isn’t like you to come out here without letting me know first.” The dowager duchess felt a sudden stab of fear. “Has something happened? Is Tristan all right?”

  “Tris is fine,” Morgan replied reassuringly. “What is wrong with everyone today? Can’t a man arrive at his own home without everybody going into a frenzy? First Burke and now you.”

  “Don’t pout, Morgan,” the dowager duchess admonished, regarding her grandson thoughtfully. Morgan was not known for his even temper, but she could see beyond the agitation that something was upsetting him. Biding her time, she served the tea.

  The dowager duchess elegantly lifted the Spode teapot, filling the thin porcelain cups. She added sugar and cream, then handed Morgan his cup. While he balanced the delicate vessel in his large hand, she filled a plate with biscuits, cucumber sandwiches, scones, and Morgan’s favorite cream pastries. She placed the plate on the low table in front of him and watched as he dove into it with relish.

  Absently she sipped her own tea while continuing to observe her beloved grandson. She noticed his tired eyes and the grim set to his mouth. Yes, something was definitely bothering him, but experience taught her Morgan would tell her in his own good time.

  Although the dowager duchess loved both her grandsons, it was Morgan who held a special place in her heart. She was not blind to his faults; he was quick-tempered and demanding and at times could be positively dictatorial. But his often gruff exterior hid a generous and loyal heart, and a sensitive soul.

  Few people ever saw the sensitive side of Morgan, but the dowager duchess did. She knew his marriage had been an unhappy one and she in part blamed herself because she had encouraged the match. Only the dowager duchess knew the pain and guilt Morgan suffered when Valerie had died.

  She had seen him turn inward more over the three years since Valerie’s death. The duke was a complex man; well liked and well respected among his peers, yet there were few in society who could claim his friendship. Morgan was a man who kept his own counsel. As for women, the dowager duchess was well aware of Morgan’s less than sterling reputation. She was not naive; she knew he kept mistresses as well as indulging in affairs with married women of the ton. She had long since given up trying to introduce him to respectable, eligible young women. He had expressed his refusal to consider marriage again in no uncertain terms and the dowager duchess tactfully respected his desires. It was an unspoken agreement between them.

  After deciding Morgan had eaten his fill of pastries, the dowager duchess began her inquires.

  “How are Tris and dear Caroline progressing with the wedding plans? Has Caroline’s scatterbrained mother been able to set a definite date yet?”

  “Grandmother,” Morgan warned, “you must not refer to Lady Grantham as a scatterbrain all the time.”

  “Why ever not? It is the truth. Thank goodness Caroline has only inherited her sweet nature and not her lack of sense. You know I can’t tolerate stupidity in anyone, especially women. But what about the wedding plans?”

  Morgan gave her a quelling look. “Really, madam, if you insist on discussing wedding plans, I shall have to leave.”

  “Oh, do stop being so grumpy, Morgan, or I shall take back my delight in seeing you.”

  “I am sorry. I’ve had a very troublesome week.” Morgan ate two more small sandwiches. “Grandmother, have you ever made the acquaintance of Jeremy Carrington, Viscount Mulgrave?”

  The dowager duchess paused a moment to think. “I do recall meeting an Eleanor Carrington many years ago. She died young, poor creature; it was rather sad. I am not sure if she was his wife or sister. No, wait, Eleanor was his wife. I remember they had a child, a little girl.”

  “Alyssa,” Morgan murmured.

  “They had a lovely home in Hampshire. Westgate Manor, I believe it was called.”

  For once Morgan wished his grandmother didn’t possess such an excellent memory. She knew more about the Carrington family than he did.

  “I now own Westgate Manor,” Morgan informed the dowager.

  “I wasn’t aware that you had purchased another estate.”

  “Actually, I bought it at auction,” Morgan hedged.

  “An auction? At this time of year?”

  “This particular sale was a. tad unusual. It was held in the club room at White’s,” Morgan reluctantly admitted.

  “Gracious! What sort of fool would sell a prime piece of property in such a ridiculous manner?” The dowager duchess’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Was Lord Carrington drunk?”

  “Certainly not,” Morgan replied indignantly. “I can assure you, Grandmother, I paid Carrington a fair price. More than fair, judging by what I saw of the estate yesterday.”

  The dowager duchess pursed her lips in a thin line. “I still find the entire incident extreme, even for you, Morgari.”

  The duke lifted an eyebrow. “Are you implying my actions were inappropriate, madam?”

  “No,” she responded slowly. “I am telling you that your actions were inappropriate.”

  “Touche, madam.” Morgan knew when to retreat. He prudently decided to wait a few days before telling his grandmother about Lord Carrington’s untimely death. “I thought Tris might like to have the estate after he marries.”

  The dowager duchess considered the idea. “I’m sure he will be pleased. Deep down, I think Tris has always fancied himself a bit of a country squire. It would also be prudent to keep Caroline out of London and away from her mother’s influence. One can never be too careful, my boy.”

  “You are awful, Grandmother,” Morgan joked.

  “Yes, I am,” she agreed, with a sparkle in her eye.

  Dinner began that evening on a congenial note. Morgan gallantly seated the ladies before taking his place at the head of the table. The formally attired footmen, one for each of the three diners, served the first course.

  Morgan ate routinely, not really tasting his food. His mind was occupied by the upcoming interview he had scheduled with his estate agent, Vickers, for the following morning. Morgan was also feeling a bit foolish over the idea of setting a trap in his own home.

  Lord Castlereagh’s information must be wrong, the duke decided while downing his third glass of wine. It is not possible for someone at the castle to be working for the French.

  The dowager duchess caught his eye and frowned disapprovingly at his now empty wine goblet. Morgan gave her a boyish grin calculated to melt her ire. Holding out for only a moment, the dowager duchess was unable to resist his charm and returned the grin.

  “Did I tell you yet, madam, how ravishing you look this evening?” Morgan said to his grandmother as he took a bite of the tender pheasant.

  The dowager duchess preened under his compliment. “You did not, sir,” she retorted. “ ’Tis about time you noticed.”

  The dowager did look splendid. She was dressed in a simple gray satin gown with a square-cut neckline that effectively showcased the large sapphire-and-diamond necklace she wore. Her hair was wrapped in a turban, which added height to her small frame. Compared to the short and plump Mrs. Glyndon, the dowager duchess barely looked her sixty years.

  Mrs. Glyndon. Morgan’s eyes narrowed on his gr
andmother’s companion of the past two years. He vaguely recalled hearing about her relative in France. Could there be a connection?

  “Tell me, Mrs. Glyndon, do you still have family living in France?” he asked the older woman.

  “Why yes, Your Grace,” she answered, flattered the duke would remember something so personal. “My widowed sister and her three sons live outside Paris.”

  “Do you correspond with them often?”

  “Not anymore.” She sighed regretfully. “It has been difficult getting letters through these last few years.”

  “But there are ways,” Morgan insisted.

  “Well, I suppose,” Mrs. Glyndon answered hesitantly, not understanding exactly what the duke meant.

  “Are your nephews in the French army?” Morgan pressed on.

  “Oh, my, no, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glyndon responded. “They are still young boys. Phillip, the oldest, has just turned thirteen.”

  “What of your sister, Mrs. Glyndon? Does she sympathize with the French cause?”

  “I . . . am . . . ah . . . not sure what you mean,” Mrs. Glyndon stuttered.

  “It is a very simple question. Does your sister support Napoleon?” Morgan said accusingly.

  “Morgan, really!” the duchess intervened. “Whatever do you think you are doing talking to Imogene in such a manner?”

  Morgan looked at the two women. Mrs. Glyndon was near tears and his grandmother looked angry enough to throw her wine goblet at him.

  Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. What is wrong with me? I am acting like the woman is on trial for murder.

  “Ladies, I beg your pardon. Madam, Mrs. Glyndon, you must excuse me. I fear I’m not fit company this evening.” He rose purposefully from the table and inclined his head graciously in farewell before leaving the room.

  Later the next morning, Morgan stared gloomily out of the library windows at the magnificent gardens. The interview with his estate agent had yielded no pertinent information. No new people had been hired to work on the estate in over a year. Morgan was completely frustrated, and it was a feeling he did not enjoy.

  Crossing the room soundlessly on the thick oriental carpet he locked the library doors with some misgivings.

  Laying the trap for the Falcon was fairly simple. Morgan was given three sets of documents, each containing important but different information on troop and supply movements on the peninsula.

  Morgan was instructed to lock the first set of documents in his desk at Ramsgate Castle, the second set in a more unusual place in the same room, and the third set in the safe of the private study of his London residence.

  Lord Castlereagh intended to selectively circulate the news that Morgan was taking an active role in the War Ministry, thus letting the Falcon know there was valuable information to be obtained from the duke. It was fully expected the Falcon would then activate his contact at Ramsgate Castle to obtain the information.

  British agents working in France would relay back to Lord Castlereagh what information had been received by the French.

  Anyone who knew the workings of the estate and had access to Ramsgate Castle would be able to discover the first set of papers locked in the desk. The second set would be more difficult to locate and retrieve. If they were discovered, it could be concluded the informer was someone who was personally known to the duke. And if the final set of papers were uncovered in London, Lord Castlereagh’s suspicions would be confirmed—a member of British society was selling military secrets to the French.

  With the door securely locked, Morgan took stock of the room. Quickly he removed two sets of documents from his inside breast coat pocket. He placed the first set in the top left drawer of his desk and locked the drawer. The second set of papers were hidden inside a strongbox which was locked inside a Sheraton satinwood cabinet.

  Once the documents were in place, Morgan left the library. The trap was set at Ramsgate Castle. There was nothing left to do but wait.

  Three days later, Jeremy Carrington was laid to rest next to his wife in a simple service in the family graveyard. Alyssa sold her only piece of jewelry, a garnet-and-pearl brooch of her grandmother’s, to pay for the funeral. She remained dry-eyed throughout the service, standing alone in the cold February mist. Composed, Alyssa watched with a detached air as the heavy oak coffin was placed into the ground.

  Alyssa knew she appeared coldhearted, but felt no obligation to display false tears for the benefit of those few who attended the service. Some of the local gentry were present, but they came more out of curiosity than grief or friendship. To Alyssa, they were all virtual strangers.

  Mr. Bartlett, Lord Carrington’s London solicitor, attended the service; and when it was concluded, he and Alyssa met briefly to finalize Lord Carrington’s estate. The news was not good.

  Once they were seated comfortably in the library, Mr. Bartlett began. “Westgate Manor, as you already know, Lady Alyssa, is now owned by Morgan Ashton, the Duke of Gillingham.”

  The Duke of Gillingham’s impressive likeness came to life in her mind and her heart beat a little faster.

  Mr. Bartlett continued. “It is my understanding that the new Viscount Mulgrave is your uncle, Mr. Richard Carrington.”

  “My uncle?” Alyssa said blankly. She had totally forgotten about the existence of her father’s younger brother. “I’ve never met him. He emigrated to the colonies long before I was born. I believe there was a quarrel of some kind between the two brothers. As far as I know, there was no contact for over thirty years. I know nothing about Richard, yet I imagine an English title is a rather useless commodity to an American, especially since there is no property to inherit.”

  Alyssa looked to Mr. Bartlett for his opinion. Mr. Bartlett, a short, stocky man, squirmed uncomfortably under her open gaze. He cleared his throat.

  “Unfortunately, Lady Alyssa, it is of extreme importance that the new Viscount Mulgrave be located. I have thus far been unable to learn anything of the whereabouts of Richard Carrington or any of his heirs. I was hoping you would be able to assist me in the search.”

  “Why is it so important that my uncle be found, Mr. Bartlett?” Alyssa asked with a sinking feeling.

  “At the time of his death, Lord Carrington had a substantial number of unpaid bills.” Mr. Bartlett removed a stack of papers from the leather pouch he held in his lap.

  Alyssa turned stricken eyes to him. “It is not possible. Lord Carrington sold Westgate Manor at auction,” Alyssa insisted. “Surely there are sufficient funds to settle his gambling debts.”

  “The profits from the sale of the manor were spent before Lord Carrington died.” Mr. Bartlett held up the thick pile of papers. “These are not gaming debts, Lady Alyssa. They are merchants’ bills: his tailor, bootmaker, rent for his lodgings, and so forth. These bills are now the responsibility of the new heir, and if we cannot locate him, you will be held accountable for these debts.”

  “How much?” Alyssa asked shakily, her face ashen.

  “The total is almost six thousand pounds.”

  Six thousand pounds! Alyssa slowly exhaled the breath she had been holding. Her stomach churned with fear, and she put a trembling hand to her mouth. God help me, this must be some sort of cruel mistake. But one look at Mr. Bartlett’s face confirmed it was not.

  “What if I cannot pay, Mr. Bartlett?”

  Mr. Bartlett chewed furiously on his lower lip.

  “Debtors who do not pay their bills eventually wind up in Newgate Prison,” he said as gently as possible.

  “I feared so, Mr. Bartlett.” Alyssa crossed the room and withdrew two papers from her writing desk. She felt a tightening in her throat and a moment of pure terror as she realized what she was doing. Silently she handed the solicitor the documents.

  “I have a small amount of capital invested and I own a modest cottage on the outskirts of the village. If the cottage is sold and the investments liquidated, do you think there will be enough money to cover these debts?”

  She spoke cal
mly, but Mr. Bartlett could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He looked briefly down at the papers she gave him, resolving to make up the difference from his own meager funds if necessary.

  “I am sure this will be adequate. I do hope you will allow me to handle this matter for you.”

  “I would be most grateful, Mr. Bartlett,” Alyssa replied softly, walking him to the library door. “I sincerely thank you for your kindness today.”

  Mr. Bartlett stared into her lovely face, feeling deeply the sadness reflected in her green eyes. Giving her an encouraging smile, he left.

  As the door closed behind him, Alyssa sank slowly to the floor, her hands covering her face. Her mind refused to function, concentrating instead on one indisputable fact—she was now totally without funds or property.

  Chapter Four

  “Do you think Rev. Jameson will be able to help me secure a position, Mavis?” Alyssa asked her former nurse.

  In the week that had passed since her disastrous meeting with Mr. Bartlett, Alyssa had searched in vain for employment. In an act of pure desperation, she sought help from the local vicar, hoping he could at least supply her with a character reference. To her surprise, he offered to contact his sister in Cornwall, a lady of affluent means, believing she might know of a family in need of a governess or companion.

  “I’m sure Rev. Jameson will do all that he can.” Mavis sniffed. “He’s a good sort, even if he is a man of the cloth.” She held little regard for the men of the clergy and used every opportunity to express her opinion.

  The two women were in the master bedroom suite sorting through Lord Carrington’s belongings in an effort to clear the house of the few remaining personal items.

  “Well, even if you don’t completely approve of Rev. Jameson, I admit I am most grateful for his help.”

  Mavis paused in her work, turning her face away from Alyssa. Her voice was choked with emotion as she tried to speak.

  “How I wish I could take care of you, just as I did when you were a tiny babe. It breaks my heart to think of you locked away in some dreary nursery with a parcel of brats, wasting away all your youth and beauty.” Mavis pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose loudly.