Guilty Pleasures 0f A Bluestocking (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 4

  Deborah let out a sigh of frustration. The search felt hopeless. She had no idea what she was even looking for, and the darkness made the chances of stumbling across something of value a thousand times more unlikely.

  There must be some clue in here. There must.

  But searching by candlelight was fruitless. There was nothing for it—she would have to come back during the day. Risk her mother catching her in this sacred shrine to her sister.

  Deborah stepped out into the gloomy passage. She was wide awake. She knew she would not sleep tonight. How long until dawn? Several hours at least, she knew.

  She made her way downstairs on bare, silent feet and padded into the kitchen. As a child, she had come down here a lot. She and Edith had loved helping the cook prepare their meals, much to the chagrin of their father. He had forbidden such a thing once his daughters had left their childhood behind.

  “The kitchen is no place for young ladies,” he would say, squeezing his daughters’ hands and giving them a slight smile. A smile that told them he was doing what was best for them. A smile that said he was not to be argued with. Not even sweet-spoken Edith had been able to talk him out of it.

  Deborah pulled the kitchen door closed and lit the lamp in the center of the table. She had heard the thunderous snores coming from her father’s bedchamber. Knew there was no chance he would discover her down here tonight.

  The familiarity of the kitchen brought a wave of nostalgia. Deborah could picture herself and Edith as children, standing either side of their elderly cook, reaching up on tiptoes and helping mix currants into the cake batter. She felt a small smile in the corner of her lips.

  The remains of a fire were still glowing. She jabbed at them with the poker, stirring them to life, then sat the kettle on the range. She sat at the table and watched as thin threads of steam began to rise from the kettle. There was something oddly comforting about the sight of it. Something calming.

  She went to the pantry for the tea and pulled a mug from a hook on the shelf.

  The door creaked open, making Deborah start. She whirled around, gasping, and caught sight of their elderly housekeeper in the doorway.

  Mrs. Barton pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, Miss Wilds. I do apologize. I didn’t imagine it would be you down here.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barton. I didn’t mean to scare you. I couldn’t sleep. I thought a little tea might help settle me.” She gave the housekeeper a small, sheepish smile.

  Mrs. Barton had worked for her family since before Deborah was born. She had always liked the woman. Perhaps it was the length of time Mrs. Barton had worked for the Chilsons, but she had never seen fit to stand at attention around Deborah and her sister. Had never shied away from wishing them good morning, or even scolding them when they had misbehaved.

  After Edith’s death, Mrs. Barton had been a great source of comfort to Deborah. Some days, she had sought out the housekeeper just so she might have a sympathetic ear to speak to. Someone she could confide in. Sometimes Mrs. Barton felt more like a friend than a member of their staff. But Deborah knew better than to let her father see such things.

  Mrs. Barton bustled into the kitchen and flapped a wrinkled hand at Deborah, shooing her away from the range. “Out of the way, Miss Wilds. I’ll do that for you.”

  “There’s really no need,” Deborah told her gently. “I’m quite able to make myself a cup of tea.” She smiled at Mrs. Barton. “Please, go back to bed.”

  The housekeeper pulled a second cup from the shelf. Her bare feet were silent against the flagstones, her long gray hair in a plait down her back. “Couldn’t sleep myself. Owl outside my window is doing his best to keep my awake. I called out and shooed him away, but he’s a damn determined old thing. Were back within two minutes.”

  Deborah laughed.

  Mrs. Barton nodded at the second teacup. “I hope you don’t mind if I—?”

  “Not at all,” said Deborah, smiling. “I could use the company.”

  She sat at the table and let Mrs. Barton pour the cups of tea. The housekeeper sat beside her and looked at Deborah with her wise blue eyes.

  “What’s keeping you from sleeping then?” she asked. “Your impending marriage, perhaps?”

  Deborah smiled to herself. She enjoyed the way Mrs. Barton did not hold back from asking the questions she wished to know the answer to. And she also enjoyed the warmth that had blossomed in her chest at the mention of her marriage. She was not due to see the Duke again for several more days. She wasn’t sure she could stand the wait.

  As though catching the glint in Deborah’s eye, Mrs. Barton smiled. “You have yourself a fine match there, miss. That Duke is a fine young gentleman.” She gave Deborah a playful grin. “Not to mention devilishly handsome.”

  The flutter in Deborah’s chest intensified. “He will make a fine husband,” she agreed. “I’m very lucky.” But as she spoke, thoughts of Edith came flooding back, making her voice waver slightly. She knew Mrs. Barton had heard, too.

  “You’re thinking about your sister,” she said.

  Deborah nodded, taking a sip from her cup. It slid warm down her throat, steadying her a little. “It ought to have been Edith marrying the Duke,” she said.

  Mrs. Barton didn’t speak. She just wrapped her hands around her mug and stared into it.

  “I went to her room,” Deborah admitted.

  Mrs. Barton let out her breath. “Oh, Miss Wilds, I…” She sighed heavily. “You know how your poor mother will react if she discovers you’ve been in there.”

  Deborah felt a stab of guilt. “I know. But…” She faltered.

  Why did I just confess to this?

  She had needed to tell someone, she realized. The guilt of it was gnawing at her and she had needed to share.

  Mrs. Barton nodded silently, inviting Deborah to continue.

  “I don’t believe the reason Father gave for Edith’s death,” she said. “I don’t believe it was melancholy that led her to kill herself.” She stared at her hands, which were clasped so tightly around her mug her knuckles had turned white.

  “Then what do you believe?” Mrs. Barton leaned forward. “Surely you don’t believe this has anything to do with the Duke?”

  Deborah shook her head emphatically. “No. No, of course not. But I need to know.”

  Mrs. Barton nodded. “Of course. It’s only natural that you want answers.” She reached over impulsively and squeezed Deborah’s hand. She looked up at her with fervent, shining eyes. “I truly hope you find them.”

  Chapter 6

  Deborah spent the next day following the movements of her parents, following the movements of the staff. She needed to get into Edith’s room in daylight. And she needed to do it without anybody catching sight of her.

  There seemed to be footsteps marching up and down the hallway the entire day. Sometimes her father, trudging back and forth from his office, sometimes her mother making for her sitting room. And then an endless parade of staff, changing bedclothes, polishing windows, dusting the shelves.

  Finally, in the late afternoon, the hallway fell quiet. The maids had finished their chores for the day and her father was ensconced in his paperwork. Deborah had not seen her mother since she had disappeared into the sitting room after her nuncheon. She knew it likely the Viscountess had drifted into a troubled sleep on that threadbare chaise in the corner. Sleeping, it seemed, had become her mother’s way of coping.

  Seizing her chance, Deborah darted down the hallway and slipped into Edith’s room, closing the door silently behind her.

  In the daylight, she could see a thick layer of dust lying over everything, the grime disturbed only in the places she had been looking the previous nights.

  The sight of the neglected room made Deborah’s heart lurch afresh. She understood her mother’s need to preserve Edith’s bedroom, of course, but surely it would honor her sister more to keep the room clean and polished. Surely Edith would not want her belongings to disappear beneath years of dust and
dampness. Perhaps Deborah might suggest it to her mother. Suggest it in a way that did not make it obvious she had been inside…

  She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. The sun was already low in the sky, and she knew she had precious little daylight left.

  She went back to the wardrobe, rifling through the clothing and shoes again, in case she had missed something last time. Through the dressing table again she went, through the drawer in Edith’s side table.

  Then she climbed to her knees and peered beneath the bed. She sneezed loudly as a thick layer of dust billowed into her face. She froze, waiting to see if she had been heard.

  Nothing.

  Deborah peered back beneath the bed, stretching a hand out in front of her. Her fingers found something solid. Stretching further, she grabbed hold of the item, realizing it was a small box.

  Excitedly, she pulled it out from beneath the bed. It was a small wooden jewelry chest, her sister’s initials engraved on the lid. Deborah had received a similar one from their father back when she and Edith were children.

  Why would Edith have hidden her jewelry box beneath her bed?

  She opened the lid, her heart racing. There had to be something important inside. Would it give some clue as to why Edith had died?

  Deborah realized she was a little afraid. The truth, she knew, would not be easy to carry.

  Inside the box was a small folded page, Edith’s name written across it in a florid hand.

  Deborah opened it carefully.

  My darling Edith,

  You are in my thoughts constantly. I am counting down the days until we can see each other again. How I long to make you my wife…

  The missive was left unsigned.

  Deborah exhaled sharply.

  A love letter! Who had been writing Edith love letters?

  She realized her hand had begun to tremble.

  Could it have been the Duke? The gentleman she was to marry?

  The thought left her feeling strangely breathless. Strangely unsteady. Strangely ill.

  She folded the page and slid in back into the envelope, suddenly unable to look at it. She had to ask the Duke about this. She had to ask him immediately.

  Deborah stood shakily, pushing the jewelry box back beneath the bed and sliding the letter into her pocket. When she had looked into the Duke’s eyes that day at the river, she had seen desire. Seen longing. True, she had not seen such a look from any other gentleman before, but she had nonetheless recognized it at once. And she had believed it was a look he had only ever given her. But was she being foolish and naïve? Had the Duke once penned a letter confessing his devotion to her sister?

  Deborah had always believed the betrothal of Edith and the Duke to be a match of strategy, a union to strengthen the relationship between their families.

  But is it possible they had also been in love?

  Chapter 7

  Deborah pulled on her cloak and slipped out the side door into the gardens. No one had seen her on her stealthy escape from the house. If she kept to the lengthening shadows, surely she could disappear from the grounds without anyone noticing.

  She trudged through the mud at the edge of the garden, past her mother’s rose garden, past the orchard. On the other side of the grounds, she could see the cemetery, the graves rising from the earth like rows of crooked teeth. She forced herself to look away. Forced herself to keep walking.

  She reached the front gates.

  Am I truly about to do this?

  Deborah had never behaved in such a daring way before.

  What would the Duke think of her appearing on his doorstep, unannounced and unaccompanied? Would he be appalled? Offended? The thought was almost enough to have her turning around and hurrying back to her bedroom.

  Deborah shook her fears away.

  No. I need the truth. And this cannot wait.

  Perhaps she ought to have done this properly. Admitted her suspicions and had her lady’s maid accompany her to the Duke’s manor. But doing so would force her to admit she had been sneaking about in Edith’s bedroom. And that was something Deborah was not ready to do.

  This was about far more than solving the mystery of Edith’s death, Deborah knew. This was about determining the truth inside the Duke’s heart. Determining whether Deborah would spend her entire marriage trying to fill the hole left by her departed sister.

  She slipped out of the gates without looking back.

  Pulling up the hood of her cloak, she walked with her head down, so as not to be recognized. The daylight was draining quickly, and the streets were close to empty. A fine rain was falling, making the streets glisten. A horse and carriage rattled by and she kept her eyes to the ground, ensuring her face stayed hidden.

  Deborah had not been inside the Tarsington manor before, but the Duke had the coachman take her past the house on their way back from the river, so Deborah might see the place she was to become mistress of. She retraced her steps carefully, exhaling in relief when the manor appeared before her.

  Her relief at not getting lost was quickly replaced with nerves. But she had come this far. She was not turning back now.

  Ignoring her thundering heart and the prickling of the skin at the back of neck, she strode up the front path and knocked on the door. When the butler answered, she looked at him squarely and said, “I need to see the Duke. Immediately.”

  The butler eyed her but said nothing. He gave her a short nod and disappeared into the house. Moments later, the Duke appeared in the doorway. He was without his waistcoat and jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was ruffled and messy, as though he had been raking his fingers through it.

  “Miss Wilds?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you here alone?”

  “Yes,” said Deborah. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.” She tried to read his expression. Was he angry? He didn’t look it. He just looked surprised. “I know it’s dreadfully wrong for me to be here. I just—”

  “This way.” the Duke ushered her quickly into the sitting room and shut the door. He turned to look back at her, his dark eyes full of concern. “Has something happened?” he asked.

  Deborah swallowed heavily. She felt suddenly foolish. She forced herself to speak. “I found something,” she said. “In Edith’s room. Something I was not expecting to find.” She reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the letter. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a sudden pain in her throat.

  Thoughts of Edith and the Duke together flooded her mind. She pictured them walking along the river, pictured them shoulder to shoulder, their hands intertwined, pictured him with his lips pressed to hers. The ache of it was almost too much to bear.

  She held the letter out to the Duke, her hand shaking slightly. “Did you write this?”

  * * *

  Deborah looked suddenly small and fragile. Her blue-green eyes were wide with expectation. Leonard felt a knot of fear in his stomach.

  What has she found? Where has her search led her?

  He took the letter from her outstretched hand. He unfolded it and began to read.

  A love letter, unsigned. Brief, but full of passion. Whoever had written this had clearly been infatuated with Miss Edith Wilds. He folded it back up and handed it back to Deborah.

  “I did not write this,” he told her.

  Her shoulders sank slightly and she let out her breath.

  Is that relief in her eyes?

  “I’m glad,” she said. “I’m so glad. I—” She stopped herself abruptly, color rushing to her cheeks. “I mean, I’m glad you weren’t in love with her, because if you were, her death would have been so much harder for you to carry, and…” She faded out, her face blazing.

  Leonard was unable to hide a smile. How lovely she was. And how he loved the way she blushed so easily. It made her easy to read. And he liked the things he was reading.

  He looked her in the eyes. “I was not in love with your sister,” he told her firmly. “But someone else clearly was.”


  Little wonder Miss Edith Wilds had been so distant during their courtship. She had been thrust into marriage to Leonard while her heart was with another gentleman.

  “Yes.” Miss Wilds’s voice was soft, trapped in her throat. She kept her eyes down, clearly embarrassed by her earlier outburst.

  What a shock it had been to find her on his doorstep. An extremely welcome shock, but a shock, nonetheless. Had she truly come all this way on her own to ask him about this letter? To ask if he had been in love with her sister? Did such a thing truly matter so much to her?