of open ground to the house. Four paces to the rose-bush, another two to the edge of the terrace and up the ivy trellis at the corner of the house. And, please God, let it hold his weight, for the three storeys to the bedroom window would be no problem to climb, but damned tricky should he fall.
He was across the yard and up the ivy in a flash, happy to find the trellis anchored to the brickwork with stout bolts, and a narrow ledge beneath the third-storey window sill. He walked along it in the darkness, feet sure as though he was walking down a city street.
He stopped when he reached the window he suspected was hers. If it had been his house, he would have chosen another room for solitude, but this one had the best view of the garden. When he had known her, she had enjoyed flowers and he’d been told that the gardens at the Wellford manor had been most splendid because of the duchess’s attentions. If she wished to see the rose-bushes, she would choose this room.
He slipped a penknife under the frame, feeling along until he found the latch and felt it slide open with the pressure of the blade. Then he raised the sash a few inches, and listened at the gap.
There were no candles lit. The room was dark and quiet. He threw the window the rest of the way open, and listened again for an oath, an exclamation, anything that might indicate he had been heard. When nothing came, he stepped through the window and stood for a moment behind the curtain, letting his eyes adjust to the dim glow from the banked coals in the grate.
He was alone. He stepped further into the room, and was shocked to feel a wave of sadness and longing overtake him.
So it was not to be as easy as he’d hoped. The irrational jealousy he’d felt, when he’d heard she had found a protector so soon after leaving off her mourning, was burning away. He had hoped he could keep the anger fresh, and use it to protect his resolve when the time came to search her rooms. If she was no longer the innocent girl he remembered, but instead a traitorous whore, then she deserved punishment.
But he probed his heart and knew vengeance would be impossible, as would justice. If there was something to find in the room, he would find it.
And he would destroy it before St John Radwell and the government could ever see. He could not let Barton continue, but he would not let Constance be punished for her lover’s crimes. If there was a way to bring her out of it with a whole skin, he would do it, no matter the cost to his own reputation.
He scanned the room. He had chosen well. It was definitely a lady’s bedroom: large and high-ceilinged, decorated in rose with delicate furniture. Along the far wall, there was a soft and spacious bed.
Where the Duchess of Wellford entertained Jack Barton.
He turned away from it, looking anywhere but towards the bed.
He had expected to find a well-appointed boudoir, but this room was strangely empty. It was pretty enough, but almost monastic in its simplicity. On the walls there was no decoration. He ran his hands along the floral paper and felt for empty hooks. There should be sconces, there and there. And in the centre? A painting, perhaps, or a mirror with a gilt frame.
He strode across the room, to the wardrobe, threw open the doors, and was momentarily stunned by the scent of her. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Lavender. Had she always smelled this sweet? It had been so many years…
Eyes still shut, he navigated by touch through the dark wardrobe, his fingers playing along the back panels and feeling no spaces, no concealed latches. He patted the gowns and cloaks, feeling for lumps in pockets and finding none.
He opened his eyes again and went through the drawers, one at a time, feeling no false bottoms, nothing concealed between the dainties folded there. Silk and linen and fine Indian cotton. Things that had touched her body more intimately than he ever would. His fingers closed on a handkerchief, edged in lace and embroidered with a C. Impulsively, he took it and thrust it into his pocket, moving to the dresser to continue his search.
The Dowager Duchess of Wellford perched on the edge of her seat in her parlour, staring hopefully at the man on the couch next to her.
He was about to speak.
It was about time. He had been hinting for weeks.
She did her best to drum up a thrill of anticipation.
‘Constance, there is something I wish to speak to you about.’
‘Yes, Jeremy.’ Jeremy Manders was not her ideal, of course, but neither had her late husband been, and they had suited well enough.
‘We have known each other for a long time, since well before your husband passed. And I have always held you in high esteem.’
She smiled and nodded encouragement. ‘And I you. You were Robert’s good friend, and mine.’
‘But I will admit, even while Robert was alive, feeling the occasional touch of envy at his good fortune in having you, Constance.’
She blushed and averted her eyes.
‘I would never have dared say anything, of course, for Robert was my friend.’
She looked up again, still smiling. ‘Of course not.’ Her late husband, Robert, was far too much in the conversation for her taste.
‘But you were quite the loveliest…still are, I mean, the loveliest woman of my acquaintance.’
‘Thank you, Jeremy.’ This was much better. She accepted the compliment graciously. But she wished that, just once, a man could comment on something other than her appearance.
‘I hesitated to say anything, while you were still in mourning. It would hardly have been respectful.’
‘Of course not.’ He was hesitating to say it now, as well. Why could he not just go down on a knee and speak the words?
‘But I think sufficient time has passed. And you do not appear to be otherwise engaged. I mean, you are not, are you?’
‘No. My affections are not held by another, and I am quite out of my widow’s weeds.’ And growing older by the minute. Was it too much to expect him to seize and kiss her? That would make the point clear enough.
And it might be most romantic. But it would be too much to ask, and she forced herself not to wish for it.
‘So there is no one else? Well, that is good to know.’ He sagged with relief. ‘I thought, if you were free, that we might do well together. You find me attractive, I hope.’
‘Oh, yes, Jeremy.’ She hoped it was not too obvious to a casual observer that she was reaching the point where she would find any man kind enough to offer marriage to be of surpassing handsomeness.
‘And I assure you, I will be able to meet your expenses. I have ample resources, although I am not a duke, as your late husband was.’
Robert again. But Jeremy could afford to pay her bills, so let him talk. ‘That is a great comfort to me.’
‘And I would want you to get whatever gowns and frippery you might wish, as soon as possible. It must be most tiring to you to have to wear black for a year, and then to make do with what you had before.’
Shopping for things she did not need. She had quite forgotten what it was like. She smiled, but assured him, ‘Really, it is only foolishness. It does not matter so much.’
‘Oh, but it does to me. I wish to see you as bright and happy as ever you were.’
Relief flooded through her.
‘I will provide a house, of course. Near Vauxhall, so that we might go there of an evening. And a generous allowance.’
‘House?’ The flood of relief became tainted with a trickle of doubt.
‘Yes. And the dresses, of course. You could keep a staff, of…’ he calculated ‘…three.’
‘Three?’
‘And your maid as well,’ he amended. ‘Which would really be