Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(72)
“I’m perfectly content,” her pride forced her to say.
The duchess wasn’t fooled. She tilted her head, considering her. “You look perfectly miserable, dear.”
Daisy firmed her lips, stifling the unwanted surge of emotion evoked by her would-be friend’s words. “I’m… ” Lonely, wretched, dejected, heartbroken. She swallowed. “A friend would be lovely.”
“Excellent. You may be surprised to learn that we have a great deal more in common than hailing from the same homeland.” Georgiana settled her teacup into its saucer. “I too have a husband given to abrupt disappearances and secrecy.”
Daisy considered her newfound friend, struggling to make sense of the implications of what she’d just revealed. During the time she’d flitted about fashionable London society, she had never seen the Duke of Leeds himself. “Is His Grace not in residence?” she asked hesitantly.
Georgianna’s sunny expression went uncharacteristically dark. “He claims to be in America on a prolonged hunting expedition. Naturally, I don’t believe a word of it.”
Daisy frowned, feeling uncomfortable with this glimpse into the marriage of two virtual strangers. “You don’t?”
“I found some correspondence in the fire grate of his study, half burnt. It was nothing but a few sentences, meaningless observations on the weather, and I couldn’t fathom why he would’ve gone to the trouble of burning such a thing.” Georgiana paused. “It was only later, when I found some other letters stuffed amongst his books, that I realized they were written in code. It wasn’t at all what it seemed.”
Letters written in code.
What in heaven’s name…
Daisy’s mind returned to the odd note she’d found in Sebastian’s chamber, folded in thirds. The skies look too ominous to wait until afternoon. A shiver went straight down her spine. “Were you able to translate them?” she asked.
Georgiana nodded slowly. “My husband isn’t hunting game, Daisy. He’s in New York City. I haven’t yet worked out what it is he’s doing or why, but it’s something to do with the Fenians. What’s more, there was a name on one of the letters.”
Dread crept through her, uncoiling and then snapping tight around her heart like a manacle. Somehow, she knew what Georgiana was going to say next. “It was my name, wasn’t it?”
The duchess nodded. “So it only seems fitting, you see, that you and I ought to join forces and bring our miserable husbands to heel.”
Daisy set down her teacup with numb fingers as suspicion, hurt, and confusion warred within her. “What do you propose we do?”
Georgiana smiled, but this time, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll wage a campaign of our own. Men are not so different from dogs in some ways, you see. Both are quite territorial. By the time we’re finished, they’ll be begging to tell us the truth.”
30th April, 1881
Your Grace,
If you would deign to answer any of my letters, or to return to London where I await you, you would do me the utmost kindness. Your silence is as disheartening as your abandonment.
I do so fervently hope you won’t mind the soirees I’ve been hosting, which are sometimes quite dear in cost. I confess that I was startled to realize I’d spent nearly a hundred pounds on ice sculptures over the course of the month. To be fair, however, the sculptures were exquisite.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
April bled into May.
By day, Sebastian and Griffin oversaw the chemist’s shop, keeping their wits about them and their eyes and ears open. Their clientele was steady and predictable. No large-scale purchases of acids or glycerin. Nothing that would be cause for suspicion or alarm.
By night, they scoured the streets of Liverpool. Their intelligence from the Pinkertons in America was concise and clear. There would be an attack. The devil of it was that beyond knowing a bomb planting was imminent, they were helpless to stop the destruction from unfolding without evidence leading them to the origin of the conspiracy.
“All roads lead to Vanreid,” Griffin pointed out needlessly as they stood alone in their empty storefront one evening.
Sebastian stilled in the act of tallying their ledger from the day. Though he’d never been interested in trade, here was a part of his duty that he enjoyed. Numbers were so precise. There was no confusion when it came to arithmetic. One was either correct or incorrect, and there was not a bloody subjective thing about it. So unlike every other part of his life that he almost found peace in working over the leather-bound book with his pen. It was a diversion, at any rate, from missing Daisy and wondering what the hell she must think of his sudden disappearance.
Duty was a hell of a thing.
“Of course all roads lead to Vanreid,” he said at last, measuring his words with care as he finished a sum. “He is the primary source of funds. He owns the arms factory, the boats. He hides his every evil action beneath the pretext of innocent business. And yet, for all that, he remains the wily fox who has outsmarted us, gotten into the henhouse, and eaten every last fowl, for we cannot buy evidence against him.”
“Do you not think it odd, Bast, the way he can seemingly predict our moves?” Griffin asked from across the room.