The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(70)

What if you do offer her marriage . . . ?

His hand shook, and liquid splashed over the rim, hitting his fingers.

A knock sounded at the door, and he looked up quickly, grateful for the interruption. “Enter,” he boomed.

His butler, Fuller, opened the door. “My lord, the Duchess of Wilkinson has arrived to see you.”

The duchess? He shot his gaze to the long case clock and frowned. Twenty minutes past ten. What matter of urgency would have the always-proper duchess here, now? Nervousness pulled at the edge of his consciousness. “Show her in,” he said, and the greying man took his leave.

A short while later, Fuller was escorting the poised duchess in. “The Duchess of Wilkinson.”

Robert swiftly set his glass down and quickly came over to greet one of his family’s oldest friends. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Westfield,” she greeted, the corners of her mouth pinched, her eyes haggard. “I hope you can forgive my impoliteness in arriving so and at this unfashionable hour.” She paused. “There is a matter of some urgency I would speak with you on,” she said, fanning his apprehension.

Robert motioned her in. “Please.” He gestured to the leather button sofa, and with the regal elegance of a queen, she swept over to the chair with the possession of one who owned this very room. “Is the duke—?”

“He is well.” She sat, and then for the first time he could ever recall, the duchess wrung her hands. “I am not here about the duke.”

He took in that telling gesture that spoke volumes of a woman who’d chided her daughter for laughing too loudly as a child.

Following his gaze, the duchess stopped abruptly, and then primly folded her hands in her lap. “I am here about Miss Banbury.”

Her words held him momentarily immobile. “Miss Banbury?” he repeated slowly, and claimed the leather chair across from the duchess.

The older woman gave a brusque nod, and pulled off her gloves. “I hesitated in coming tonight, my lord. But given our families’ connections, I knew I could trust your discretion.” She laid the elegant pair of gloves on her lap.

He balled and unballed his hands to keep from shaking answers from her. “Of course,” he said quietly, while his disquiet grew.

“As you no doubt know, my husband was . . .” High color flooded her unwrinkled cheeks. “In love with his mistress.” Through that admission, Robert remained silent. What was there to say to a proud woman on the matter of her husband’s fidelity—or in this case, infidelity? “It is that love that has so blinded him to Miss Banbury’s true character. I have reason to believe she is stealing from His Grace.”

Robert stilled. The lady the Duchess of Wilkinson spoke of was incapable of treachery. Did you not believe that about another . . . ? How long had he truly known Helena to reject the duchess’s accusations?

As soon as the sliver of doubt entered, he quashed it. What need did Helena have to steal from the duke? The man had attached a ten-thousand-pound dowry to her, and would no doubt grab her the moon should she request it.

“I know it is no doubt difficult for you to hear this, given your budding affection for the lady,” she said. “And she . . .” The duchess cast a glance about, and then looked to him once more. “Her maid reports that she takes the duke’s carriage to unfashionable ends of London to meet someone with those stolen items. The young woman reported that Miss Banbury forces her to stay in the carriage while she conducts her activities.”

He stitched his brow into a line. Those actions were not consistent with a woman who’d throw herself before a child.

“I worry for my husband, Lord Westfield,” she said with a strident edge in her tone.

Robert sat back in his chair. “I do not—”

“Miss Banbury’s left for St Giles Street.”

The muscles of his stomach knotted. “Left?” he parroted like a bloody lackwit. Where would she go at this hour . . . and with whom? The doubt and indecision grew as his past merged with his present. What lady with honorable intentions would be found in the streets of Lambeth and St Giles . . . and at this hour, no less? “When?” he demanded tersely.

“This evening. Not even thirty minutes prior. I had a servant follow her hack.” Her lip peeled back. “To the Hell and Sin Club.”

The earth hung suspended and then resumed whirring at a too-fast rate. Helena was in the streets of St Giles at this hour. Terror consumed the fertile seeds of apprehension that had previously taken root. It mattered not that she was born to that world, and surely capable of handling herself amongst the seedy underbelly of London society. For her strength, she was not invincible against all manner of danger that existed for man, woman, or child in those streets.

Liar. Selfishly you’re more worried about her leaving your world, and never coming back . . .

“I ask that you just be aware.” The duchess interrupted his riotous thoughts. He fought down the urge to throw her out bodily so he could make for St Giles. “I ask that if you see anything suspicious with the young woman that you please speak to my husband.”

“Of course,” he said curtly. Bloody hell, be gone. Signaling an end to their meeting, Robert climbed to his feet.

Alas, she’d been bred to be a duchess.

Climbing to her feet with unhurried, graceful movements, the older woman firmed her mouth. “His Grace has a large heart, but flawed judgment where women are concerned.” With meticulous movements, she pulled on her gloves and abruptly turned the discourse. “I can expect to see you at the ball tomorrow evening, my lord?” Was she mad? That she could so casually move from talk of Helena paying a night visit to the Hell and Sin, and then speak to him of her bloody ball?