To Pleasure A Duke (The Husband Hunters Club #3)

Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

E ugenie was surprised her nerves weren’t shredded by the time they reached Belmont Hall. Her mother was already in a terrible state and when they found a letter awaiting them from Terry, she insisted Eugenie read it.

By now all the family were gathered about, uncharacteristically silent, wide-eyed and waiting.

“My dear mother and father, forgive me for my haste in leaving. I was not planning to go for several days, but Annabelle’s mother sent word she was returning early and we had no choice. We are traveling to Scotland. Loving her as I do, I have no option but to help her. Your fond son, Terry. ”

The silence was broken by a shriek from Mrs. Belmont, who promptly threw herself upon the sofa, prostrate. Her husband hovered over her, useless in an emergency, while Jack stared on. Even the twins were subdued, huddled together near the door, ready to bolt to safety.

“He’s eloped!” she sobbed.

Mr. Belmont gave a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t think the boy had it in him. A duke’s sister, eh? That should raise our family’s fortunes.”

“How can you?” His wife turned on him. “The duke will go after him and then what will happen to our son? He will be gaoled, I know it! Locked up for the rest of his life! Or—or challenged to a duel and killed. Oh dear Lord, my son, my son . . .”

Eugenie let their histrionics roll over her. Her last hope was gone. It was all true. Terry really had run off with Annabelle to Scotland. There was no doubt that Sinclair would go after them. With his position and his power he would be able to cover up his sister’s situation, quash the gossip, and marry her off to the man they had already chosen for her.

And what of Terry?

Would he really be thrown into prison, as her mother said? Or would Sinclair shoot him and leave his cold body to be buried somewhere far away from home? Eugenie knew she was becoming hysterical herself, but she couldn’t help it. She kept remembering the duke’s expression as he stood in Major Banks’s library and she wouldn’t put it past him to revenge himself upon Terry. And, possibly, through him her? Was he still so angry with Eugenie that he would use Annabelle’s elopement as an excuse to punish her in so awful a way?

Don’t be ridiculous, a calming voice warned her. But the emotion was building inside her, panic and a desperate need to do something. Anything! To save her brother from Sinclair’s wrath. And as usual Eugenie felt that this was probably all her fault. If she hadn’t been distracted by her own problems she would have realized what was happening. She could have put a stop to it before the situation reached these catastrophic proportions.

The fault was hers; it was up to her to put things right.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” she said in a voice that betrayed little of her inner turmoil. “I won’t let the duke hurt Terry. I will go with him and bring Terry home.”

“Such a terrible calamity to befall my family,” Mrs. Belmont moaned. “I will never recover from it.”

But Eugenie’s quick mind was already busy, putting plans in place. She looked about her, fixing each member of her family with a serious look. “None of you must mention this, not to anyone. Do you understand? If no one knows and we can get them back home again then there need not be a scandal. As long as no one knows.”

They all nodded and gave their promises in somber voices, even the twins. Eugenie tucked Terry’s letter into her pocket. “Good. I’ll go and quickly pack a bag. I must hurry to Somerton before the duke sets off.”

It said something for their shocked condition that no one thought to protest or point out that Eugenie’s own reputation would be ruined beyond repair by setting off on such an adventure, alone, with the duke. They had simply accepted that Eugenie would step in and make everything all right.

Just as she always did.

Only Jack followed her out of the room to the foot of the stairs. “Do you want me to come with you, Genie?”

Eugenie didn’t want to linger, but he looked so worried. She gave him a reassuring smile. “No, Jack, I’ll be fine. The duke is likely to be cross and you won’t like that.”

“Somerton won’t be cross with you,” Jack assured her confidently. “He likes you. Are you riding the mare? You know what she’s like, and it’s been raining. I’d better come, too.”

Practical as always, Eugenie thought, as she hastily threw a few belongings into her bag, hardly knowing what she was doing. Wrapping her warm wool cloak about her, she hurried back downstairs and followed Jack to the stables.

“You knew about Terry and Lady Annabelle, didn’t you, Jack?” she said, as he saddled the mare.

“He told me not to tell.” He gave her an anxious sideways glance. “I didn’t know he meant to run off with her. He said they were friends, that was all, and he was going to help her out of her pre-predicament.”

“What was her predicament?”

But he just shrugged.

“Didn’t he mention it at all?”

“Well, he asked me once if it was right to do something to help someone even if it meant you’d get into trouble.”

“He asked me something similar.”

So Terry must have had his doubts but he’d gone ahead anyway. Run off with the duke’s sister! Eugenie sighed. Terry really had set a new Belmont standard for harebrained behavior.

On the ride to Somerton she clung to Jack and tried to be calm despite the maelstrom of panic in the pit of her stomach. Jack, misreading her tension, assured her they’d reach the estate before Sinclair left. “And if we don’t then I’ll follow on until we catch up with him.”

Eugenie’s angst was more about coming face-to-face with the duke. The thought of being on the receiving end of his icy anger yet again was making her feel nauseous.

He’d refuse to take her. Of course he would. He would leave her standing on the road while he drove away and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

When they reached Somerton the house was brilliantly lit, bizarrely, as if the St. Johns were about to host a grand gala. They cantered up the side of the driveway, keeping to the few shadows thrown by shrubs and a trellis of vines, and Eugenie saw the duke’s coach waiting outside. A pair of burly servants were busy strapping luggage to the back, while a coachman in a great coat, an old tricorn hat over his grizzled gray hair, held steady the four horses.

Behind them were the doors to the house, wide open, light spilling over the curve of the stairs. As if daring her to climb them.

Her heart began to thump harder than ever. She knew what would happen if she climbed those stairs and demanded to speak to Sinclair. He would refuse to have any conversation with her. And if she insisted, then he would refuse to take her with him. She couldn’t win, not on his terms. And she had to win, for Terry’s sake.

Eugenie needed a better plan; she needed to hand Sinclair a fait accompli.

“Jack,” she whispered, “will you do something for me?”

While she explained her idea he nodded seriously, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He was only a boy, after all, and to him this was probably a great adventure. Eugenie slipped from her mare, taking her bag with her, and made her way as close as she could to the coach without revealing her presence. Jack waited until she was in position, and then dug his heels into the mare’s flanks. The silly creature darted forward, kicking up gravel, and flew past the coach, servants, and the waiting coachman.

The sudden commotion made them all jump and shout. The burly servants started after Jack, waving their arms, while the coachman followed a short way, then seemed to remember that it was his job to look after the duke’s horses and turned back. But the distraction gave Eugenie time enough to reach the coach, quietly open the door and slip inside.

Creeping into the farthest corner, she curled up and made herself as small as possible. There was a neatly folded travel rug which she spread over herself, hoping she resembled some lumpy piece of luggage that had not fitted onto the back of the coach. She could not hide here for long, she knew that with a stark sense of inevitability, but perhaps it would be long enough for her to persuade him it was easier to let her stay than to waste time turning back.

* * *

Sinclair drew on his gloves as he strode down the steps. He didn’t feel cold, although his breath was white in the night air. The urgency of the situation was keeping him warm. Behind him in the doorway his mother stood with a stiff back and a white face, watching him go. As he’d expected she blamed him for the entire dire situation, and because he felt it was justified, he’d bowed his head and accepted her anger.

“I will bring her back,” he swore, when she was spent.

“I never did trust that Gamboni woman. She is behind all this, you can be sure of it. Annabelle would never do such a thing without encouragement. She is at heart a sensible girl, Sinclair.”

They had still not found Miss Gamboni, although the clothing in her bedchamber was un-touched and her luggage was still in the box room.

“What of the scandal?” His mother’s eyes were red-rimmed with grief. “How can that be dealt with?”

“The scandal can be managed. Once she is married to Lucius and living in London all will be forgotten. You will see, Mother. We will get through this without too much tarnish attached to our name.”

“You do not understand, Sinclair. Her life will be ruined. She may think she wants to be free of all this,” she waved a hand about her at the pomp of her home, “but she will soon come to realize her mistake. When it is too late.” She took a deep breath, trying to quell what she would see as too much emotion. In his mother’s world one did not display one’s feelings in front of others, not even one’s son.

“I promise you it will not come to that.”

“And what of this boy? His family will crow from the rooftops when they know he has secured himself such a prize.”

“They may well crow but no one of any importance will listen to them. I will make sure the boy never speaks of what he has done and we never set eyes on him again.”

His mother opened her mouth and then closed it again. Perhaps something in his voice, his face, made her think it was wiser not to ask how he was going to achieve that.

“Very well,” she said instead. “Remember who you are and what you represent, Sinclair. The family is relying upon you to set this matter to rights.”

He kissed the cold cheek she turned to him, and hurried down the steps. The coach was ready and waiting and he climbed in, calling for Robert the coachman. He’d decided against any other servants or outriders, thinking the less people who knew what was happening the better. And then there was a question of speed. A large retinue would slow him down and he needed to catch the runaways as soon as possible.

Sinclair had barely settled back against the leather seat when the vehicle lurched forward and then began to roll across the gravel, swinging around the circular drive and heading out between Somerton’s grand gateposts and their stone lions.

Deep in thought he did not notice the shape in the corner, or if he did, it did not strike him as anything to be concerned about. He knew that time was of the essence and according to Annabelle’s maid the eloping couple was heading northward, so they should be easy to trace. Sinclair had the advantage. He kept horses at some of the inns along the way, to enable his mother to visit her family in the north whenever she wished. He could travel with speed and would not have to deal with inferior horseflesh. No, this nightmare would soon be over and Annabelle would be back, safe in the dowager duchess’s care.

A question niggled at him. How could his sister have done such an insane thing? He knew she was unhappy and anxious about her coming marriage—she had spoken with him about it—but he never for one moment imagined she would behave with such deceit. Such wanton recklessness. He’d believed that she was simply betraying her youth and inexperience, and once she married Lucius all would be well. That was the way of their world and in time she would come to accept it.

Just as he had.

He’d underestimated her willfulness and her determination to throw aside the traces of privilege for the sake of that wretched boy.

Restlessly, Sinclair stretched out his legs and knocked against something tucked by his seat. He gave it a kick and when it remained in his way, reached down. He found himself in the possession of a luridly flowery carpetbag. Confused, he stared at it, and then with growing suspicion he unfastened the straps and peered inside.

Women’s clothes, badly packed. Curiously he lifted up a well-worn chemise and then a pair of darned stockings. A nightgown with a line of lace about the throat drew his eye, and before he knew it he was holding it to his face. Breathing in the scent.

He knew the scent well; he’d even dreamed of it. He did not need to see the hairbrush with a few strands of curly hair still caught in the bristles—brown with more than a hint of red—to know who it belonged to.

Sinclair thrust the carpetbag aside, reaching for the traveling rug that covered the lump occupying the seat in the far corner. He tugged it hard. As he’d suspected his stowaway was none other than Eugenie Belmont.