The butler straightened and stood away, jutting out his pointy chin and adjusting his waistcoat. One palsied hand patted down the long strands of gray that had previously covered his shiny bald dome.
His squinty gaze focused on Lily’s wrist, still caught fast in Duquesne’s grip. “I shall summon the night watch.”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Duquesne declared. “Off to bed with you, and that’s an order.” His firm words echoed in the cavernous hallway.
“As you wish, m’lord.” The butler shot a threatening look at Lily and shuffled off into the shadows mumbling to himself.
Duquesne forced her back into his study and over to one of the high-backed leather chairs. “Sit,” he ordered, letting go of her arm and turning to close the door.
He looked fierce. And terribly handsome, a tall, broad-shouldered figure of a man with strong classic features and a supremely self-confident air.
That had been the first thing she had noticed about him, how handsome he was. She had known handsome men before, several of them. Bounders, the lot. For instance, Clive was handsome. Her husband Jonathan had not been. Consequently, the attribute of good looks did absolutely nothing in the way of recommending trust in this man.
The concern he had shown to his servant obviously did not extend to her.
He drew up to his full, considerable height, his hands on his hips. “Now either you will explain yourself or I shall haul you to the magistrate and have him determine why you applied for employment with false references.”
Lily could not think of any lie that might elicit his aid any better than the truth would do. Earlier she had considered simply laying the situation before him and pleading for help. She wished she had done that at the outset. Her chances might have been better. Now she had no choice.
All she had wanted was the means to reach home, to make certain her son was safe and not in Clive’s clutches. Since she had already been dressed for the part and no one—not the men at the hospital, the hack driver or the old butler himself—had paused to question her gender this evening, Lily had believed playing out her charade as Brinks might work. Unfortunately she had not anticipated the keen eye of Lord Duquesne.
She had elected not to trust a man about whom she knew nothing. Well, hardly anything past one brief encounter when she was a child and current rumors of his rough existence. Lily was aware, of course, that Edgemont, one of his father’s estates, lay adjacent to that of her son. She had heard that Duquesne’s father, the earl, was sequestered there and that Duquesne had chosen some years ago to reside permanently in London.
If Brinks had not mentioned his name tonight, she would never have thought to come here. The problem was, Lily knew more about Duquesne—little as that was—than she did about anyone else in London.
This house declared more about the current state of his finances than she might have guessed. There was little furniture in evidence, at least in the foyer, hallway and his study. No paintings, sculptures or any other trappings of wealth. Except for this room, what she had seen of the place thus far made it look abandoned and uninhabited.
The chair in which she sat badly needed repair and the ancient velvet draperies at the window appeared threadbare even in the low light cast by the lamp. For the first time she noticed that the bookshelves lining three walls of the chamber were almost completely bare.
A fragile hope bloomed. Perhaps, if she could not appeal to Duquesne’s honor, he could be bought. Everyone knew he needed money. Why else would he do what he did? But he was a solitary soul and that was evident, too. Perhaps he liked his circumstances just as they were. Then again, perhaps not. She must take the chance, Lily decided. She would purchase his protection, whatever the cost.
His clothing gave her pause. It was not cheap, by any means. The nankeen trousers were obviously tailor-made for his form. The linen shirt, though wrinkled, was, also. Over that he wore a long open robe of cut velvet that must have come dear, though it was old and somewhat out of style.
She noted his feet were bare. Long, narrow and pale, they imparted just a note of vulnerability that made him seem human.
He now leaned against the front of the scarred old desk, arms folded over his massive chest, ankles crossed, and waited for her confession. “Well?”
Lily cleared her throat and sat forward, hands clasped on her knees. She looked up at him, feeling like a penitent and hating it. “I must throw myself upon your mercy, my lord, and hope that you will afford me protection.”
He raised one eyebrow and quirked his head as if to encourage her to go on. Not so much as a flicker of sympathy.
She sighed, looked down at the faded carpet, glanced at his feet again, then back at the fearsome countenance. “I am Baroness Bradshaw.” She hesitated, waiting for him to challenge her claim. When he did not, she continued. “I believe my husband’s younger brother drugged me yesterday—or perhaps the day previous…What day is this?”
“Saturday,” he replied succinctly.
“Yesterday, then. I had been riding, came into my library and was offered a glass of wine. I only drank half. The next thing I knew, I awakened, locked in a cell in Bedlam. Of course, I didn’t know that until I escaped, but—”
He smiled slightly and bit his bottom lip, but still did not comment. Now both eyebrows rose in a silent question.
“After I awoke, I overheard two men conversing outside the door. When one left and the other entered, I knocked him on the head with the heel of my riding boot, dosed him with the vial of whatever he meant for me. These.” She reached into a pocket and produced the two small bottles. “Then I escaped in his clothes.” She looked down at her attire and back at him.
He glanced away from her, shook his head and chuckled.
Lily jumped up, tears springing to her eyes. “How dare you laugh!”
Suddenly as that, he sobered, unfolding his arms and resting his hands on his hips. “You may tell whatever jokester sent you that I am no fool. This has been a colossal waste of my time as well as yours.”
“No one sent me!”
“Then I cannot imagine why you are here concocting this elaborate ruse. I happen to know that Bradshaw died of heart failure two years ago. Now I’ll have the truth from you, or else.”
Exasperated, Lily clenched her eyes, wrung her hands and heaved a sigh. “I am Jonathan’s widow. Mother to Beaumont, the current Lord Bradshaw.”
“Ah,” Duquesne said with a scoff. “You must not be aware I once met the person John Bradshaw wed and she most assuredly is not you.”
“You knew my father, Vicar Upchurch. Surely you recall his daughter marrying above her station eight years ago? It was the news of the county at the time. Even here in Town, tongues were wagging, I expect.”
He bent, examining her features. Muttering an epithet, he shook his head, snatched up her right arm and roughly pushed up her sleeve. “We’ll see if that’s so,” he snapped, holding her arm to the light. The jagged scar in the middle of her forearm shone white in the glare of the flame.
At once, his features clouded with confusion and his eyes met hers. “But…but the child I saw was—”
“Skinny is the word you must be seeking,” Lily snapped. “Skinny and short for my age. I so regret I do not clearly recall our meeting, my lord. I’m certain we would have gotten on famously.”
But she did remember that tall, gangly youth with the kind eyes and a frown of concern for her pain. A fellow more than willing to rescue a child. He had barked orders at her father, whom no one ever dared to command. Then he had lifted her in his strong arms and carried her, murmuring comforting things near her ear. She dearly hoped