“No, Your Grace.”
Nellie opened the door to her bedchamber. With a welcome woof, Peter scampered over to her. She put the rose on the dresser and picked him up. “My poor boy. Were you lonely?”
A little while later, as Nellie sat brushing her hair before the mirror, Lilly carried in a tray and placed a cup of chocolate, a basket of hot rolls, and a pot of jam on a table. “Peter has had his walk and his breakfast, Your Grace.” She went to inspect the rose. “How pretty. Shall I put it in water?”
“No. I might press it in a book.” Or crush it underfoot.
“What shall you wear this morning, Your Grace?”
“The primrose, Lilly.” Nellie sat on the chintz armchair, holding the cup in both her hands, with the hope it would warm the cold, uneasy knot in her chest.
“I saw His Grace’s valet in the kitchen when I was making your chocolate,” Lilly said. “Mr. Feeley said the duke is in the library with his secretary.”
“Yes, he’s very busy.” Nellie lowered her head over the cup.
Charles must have dressed quietly in his dressing room so as not to wake her. Did he enjoy the night as much as she did? They had barely spoken, for she’d fallen asleep. She had never imagined men and women could give each other such pleasure. Her first night with Charles was very special to her. Whatever happened between them, it would always be so. But perhaps it was not that way for him, for he hadn’t felt the need to be there when she woke.
She would dress and take the rose down to Charles and ask him who sent them. The prospect filled her with purpose, which warmed her far better than the chocolate.
*
“Either you or your legal representative must appear before the magistrate at Bow Street at ten o’clock this morning, Your Grace. Your solicitors, Crambery and Challener, have received sworn testimonies from two witnesses who saw Lord Ambrose swing a punch at you first. But Ambrose wishes to pursue it, nonetheless. The solicitors need to know if you will allow them to appear on your behalf. Or will you go yourself?”
“I’ll attend. I need to have this out with the plaintiff and his father, the Earl of Fairbrother, should he appear. The duchess is not to hear of this, Barlow.”
His secretary nodded. “Very well, Your Grace.”
“I’ll see to the mail before I leave.”
When it was put before him, Charles flicked through them. He frowned at a perfumed letter and slipped it into a drawer without opening it. Then turned to the rest. Invitations to routs, parties, and balls every night for a month.
His plan to whisk Nellie off to Shewsbury Park, where their honeymoon could begin without these distractions, must be delayed. He separated out a few. “Accept these, Barlow. Decline the rest.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Charles settled his hat on his head, pulled on his gloves, and left the house. He needed to see Nellie. They had not had much of a chance to talk. But first, he must deal with this business. He would hate her to hear about it. He’d prefer it never to reach her ears, in fact, for whatever the outcome, he considered it presented him in a poor light.
When he’d inherited the dukedom, it was his intention never to behave in a manner that was beneath his station. He considered himself honorable and even-tempered, not a thug. The slightly built Ambrose was no match for him in a fight. Charles had easily ducked the man’s wild punch. But Charles’s anger had taken hold of him, and he’d shaken the fellow so hard, he’d fallen to his knees in the street.
He should not have lost his temper, merely reasoned with the man, or failing that, walked away. His days of scrapping were long over. Even though his good friend, Ogelsby, was lying on his deathbed at the time with his family at his side, and should not have had to deal with blatant lies written about him which questioned his character. Charles sighed and hailed a hackney. Although now, with Ogelsby below ground, what followed mattered less, but he intended to bring it to an end today.
Chapter Fifteen
Nellie, having changed into a morning gown of sprigged muslin trimmed with peach satin ribbon, found her way to Charles’s study. The room was empty. Nellie was caught by its neatness. Papers and files were stacked with precision. Not so much as a pencil out of place, an unmarked blotter on the desk. Nellie thought guiltily of the state of her own desk at her parents’ home, the half-written poem, the inkblots on the blotter, and scattering of pen nibs. She left the room and crossed to the library.
Charles’s secretary, a stocky, sandy-haired man named Samuel Barlow, sat engaged in writing in a ledger. He downed his quill and rose quickly to introduce himself. “I’m afraid the duke has been called away, Your Grace,” he said with an eye on the rose she held. “He expects to return at midday.” He nodded at the flower. “They are lovely, aren’t they? Delivered fresh from Covent Garden.”
“Who sent them, Barlow?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say. There is never a name on the card.”
“Then it has happened before?”
He blinked. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“How often?”
“Every morning this past sennight.”
Nellie’s stomach churned. “Are they always sent upstairs?”
“Yes, Your Grace. The note states they are meant for the ducal suite.” He frowned. “Shall I order a maid to remove them?”
“No need, Barlow. Should more red roses arrive, please continue to send them to me.”
His shoulders sagged. “Certainly, Your Grace.”
Unable to dismiss these bouquets as a casual gesture on someone’s part, Nellie struggled to remain calm. “The duke is attending the House of Lords today?”
“No, Your Grace. Another matter has claimed his attention.”
“Which would that be? He mentioned several matters.”
Barlow tugged at
