Page 33 of The Duke
The valet paused, as though reluctant to continue. Celine recognised the tension in herself with some surprise: She wanted the young duke to succeed where no one believed she would.
But… they were speaking of her failures. And the hopeful, industrious young person Margot described wasn’t the same duke Celine had first read about, who had razed villages and farmland to make room for foundries. Nor even the grim, magnetic woman who had seduced her eight years after that.
“What happened?”
“There was an explosion. Because of how quickly the mines and canal had been constructed, the commission said. Because Her Grace had used cheap labour and cut corners. She hadn’t, but shestill lost all the ready coal to fire, and the iron stone was sunk to the bottom of the mine. It would’ve cost thousands of pounds to dredge it up again, and Her Grace had already mortgaged the land to the hilt to pay for the canal. I think you can guess who held the mortgage?”
A pain struck her heart. “Lord Wroth.”
Mr. Shaw had been complaining about an argument over some mines when he first mentioned the Earl of Wroth. Celine hadn’t understood the significance of it.
“The very same. He took all eight hundred acres, most of it not yet mined, and sent his own team in the same day. They had already taken surveys, and were ready to break new ground.”
“Then it was he who caused the explosion?”
Margot pursed her lips, looking unhappily down at her hands. “Her Grace and later Mr. Shaw chased down leads for a long time, looking for evidence that pointed to Lord Wroth, but they never found any. They’ve come to suspect Lord Wroth uses an agent for his more underhanded dealings. In fact, Her Grace is quite certain the agent is Lord Wroth’s bastard daughter, Markham, who is an unsavoury figure, rarely seen in society.”
Celine stared unseeing into her cup, trying to absorb everything Margot had told her. Her thoughts kept returning uneasily to the bastard Markham: a shadowy figure, who dirtied her hands to keep her father’s image pristine.
Margot sighed and went on, confirming what Celine had already half guessed. “The estate would’ve been beggared if Her Grace hadn’t immediately acted. It would never have recovered. She borrowed a small sum at 60 percent and knocked down her houses south of the Park. They’d been in the family for centuries, grand palaces, every one with private gardens, and in their place she built rows of narrow terrace houses which she could lease or sell at exorbitant prices. You cannot imagine the outcry from her peers.
“With the income, she built three foundries on her land, and began to smelt iron. She bought the iron stone and coal from LordWroth, the very same he had taken out of her own land. Can you imagine the force of character it took to do such a thing? And yet even as her swift action began to pay, and she poured money into her estates, investing in her tenants’ farms and giving jobs in the hundreds to local families, she was demonised for being a heartless bitch.”
Celine could see it. The child who had inherited a title too young but who had been determined anyway to follow in her aunt’s footsteps and restore the family to what it had once been. And all that passion, all the years of work, lost in a moment to her family’s enemy, who had shown her no mercy for being a child. A first real taste of adult treachery.
So the duke had entered Parliament and done whatever she had to, to gain power. She had sacrificed her own character and pieces of her family’s legacy in order to make the whole stronger. To make sure no one could ever take any of it from her again. And then Celine had turned up in London, threatening to take it all.
No wonder she had agreed to pay whatever price Celine demanded.
“Why are you telling me all this?” she asked, bewildered.
Margot’s eyes on her were very knowing. Then Margot looked away and collected the cups for washing. She said lightly, “You’re her ward, aren’t you?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mrs. Johnson’s small ballroom was made even smaller by the positioning throughout of various large potted plants and material that hung in swoops from the ceiling. Kate batted one away in irritation. Celine was short enough to find it charming, if her glowing look was anything to go by.
Somewhere, obscured by plants, et cetera, a young woman was singing in an unlikely Scottish accent.
As Kate walked deeper into the room, conversations faltered, and a number of people forgot themselves enough to stop and stare. Lords with whom she was acquainted nodded, eyebrows raised as though to say,You’re here?The debutantes, however, who were clustered together like pastel clouds, who had never in their lives seen or thought to see her… Consciousness of her presence passed through them like a strong wind, raising blushes and gasps.
She gritted her teeth and made for the refreshments room next door, which was mercifully free of decoration. She might have to attend this blasted event, but she could at least avoid being blinded by drapery.
Evidently, she wasn’t alone in seeking refuge: The number of younger gentlemen there was considerably higher than in the ballroom. She very soon realised that among this crowd, it wasn’t herself who attracted an open, admiring attention bordering on rudeness. It was Celine, on her arm, scrubbed clean and dressed with almost ascetic plainness, save for her mouth and the rose in her hair.
Her mouth. Hermouth.
Christ, Kate needed a stiff drink.
“Do you see Lord Burnley?” Celine asked eagerly, apparently immune to the attention she was receiving. One could only hope Lord Burnley was not a jealous man.
“He will find us,” Kate said with grim certainty, then made her way to the drinks table. Not a bloody spirit in sight. Only sweet ratafia. In desperation, she accepted a glass.
Her name was called across the room by a welcome voice. She turned and saw Richard making his way towards her. He was dressed severely in black and white. It was a new look, and it suited him very well, bringing his striking dark eyes and hair into sharp relief. She watched, amused, as his journey was halted again and again by friends, acquaintances, and colleagues stopping him for a chat, a laugh, a word on some topic that might be a parliamentary matter or might be salacious gossip—it was impossible to tell. He applied himself with equal seriousness to both.
Her own passage had, in contrast, been a little like the parting of the sea.
When at last he reached her, he looked harried and embarrassed. Then he spotted the drink in her hand. “Oh dear,” he said, and fell into good-natured laughter. His eyes slid curiously to Celine, widening a little.
