Page 41 of The Duke
“How,” she said hoarsely, “could you possibly think you know that?”
Celine raised her brows a little and said, “The ghost of the maid you had killed came and whispered it in my ear.”
Kate sat back as though a hand were pressing firmly against her sternum, holding her in place as understanding dawned. Someone had told Celine the truth about Bessy Simms, the maid Kate had sent to the countryside to see out her pregnancy. She’d known someone would, eventually. She’d counted on Celine feeling stupid about it. But someone had told Celine the truth, and from that, Celine had extrapolated… a different truth.
Her heart thumped.
“You don’t need the money,” Celine said with a dry glance at the rich interior furnishings of the carriage. She seemed mercifully unaware of the effect her words were having. “Let the parish unions have it. Lord Burnley says his father has worked over many years to install a bishop up north who is bullheaded and scrupulous and will see the work done. The church will help you keep Lord Wroth in check, of course.”
Celine was right… My God, Celine was right. The bill had been in committee going on two years, and evidently no one had yet put together what Lord Pecke was really angling for.
What Celine had understood in a single evening’s conversation.
Lord Pecke couldn’t get the bill passed, butKatecould. The church could. Celine had already thought ahead and understood that too: The church’s interest in the matter was crucial. If the Archbishop of York saw the chance to put Kate’s lucrative mines in his pocket, he would do it. He would put his shoulder behind the thin legal veneer and push.
The mines wouldn’t belong to her anymore, but they wouldn’t belong to Lord Wroth, either. And the workers would no longer answer to him or be at his mercy. The profit from their labour would be put into helping the indigent, the sick, the homeless, apportioned by the parish union.
Her people, whom she had failed and continued to fail for fifteen years, watching helplessly as Lord Wroth abused them. She had thrown everything she had at him for fifteen years, trying to make amends.
Celine leaned her forehead against the window and closed hereyes as though she’d lost interest in the conversation. Kate could feel the blood pumping through her body, the heat of it shimmering before her eyes.
Celine Genet was only twenty-four years old, and she had managed to get herself across the sea to another country and ensconce herself in the house of a duke, whom she had firmly under her thumb. Celine was well on her way to getting everything she wanted.
And somehow, until this moment, Kate had missed how extraordinary that was. How entirely remarkable. Not one in a thousand desperate young women could have done it. Not one in ten thousand.
Horrified, she recognised the hot feeling in her chest for what it was. Not only anger. Not only resistance.
Before, there had been physical attraction that could be put aside. This was more dangerous by far.
And Kate could not put it aside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next afternoon, Kate stepped from the muddy street up into the stone entrance of the House of Lords in its ugly, square facade. Up the double staircase and past the high, ornate galleries with stained glass windows, chandeliers burning heavily in their domed ceilings.
She entered the Painted Chamber, which was empty but for two harried-looking clerks who passed in the opposite direction, disagreeing in whispers. She could hear Loughborough’s droning voice from the Lords Chamber beyond, working through the opening proceedings of the day.
It was a slow Friday. The session hadn’t begun until two o’clock, and when Kate entered the Chamber itself, the benches were mostly empty. There were at most forty lords present, and a number of them were already nodding off, lulled by the gloomy light that filtered down from the high, round windows. The archbishop, his ballooned sleeves resting comfortably over his stomach, showed no interest in her entrance. She had woken him at four in the morning and not quit his house till an hour ago. He’d had his fill of her.
She bowed to the woolsack and took her seat. On the bench opposite, relaxed and patrician, sat Lord Wroth.
He was handsome, in his midfifties, with dark hair and frank brown eyes, which he turned on her for a moment in amused welcome before returning his attention to the chancellor. His clothes were expensive and beautifully made without being showy. Nothing in excess. Nothing out of place.
Kate smiled to herself, feeling an unholy satisfaction. Lord Wroth had no idea what she was about to do to him.
When Lord Pecke’s bill came to the floor for its third reading, it was met with unconcealed groans and pleas that the vote be taken as quickly as possible. Nobody wanted to hear from the committee. Nobody wanted the substance debated. Lord Pecke lectured the assembled lords for forty-five minutes anyway. By the time he moved that his bill be passed, even Lord Wroth’s polite attention had become a little glazed.
“The motion is to pass this bill into law,” the chancellor said by rote, obviously keen to get to the next matter. “Those who support it, saycontent.”
How many times had Lord Pecke spoken that word alone, in this chamber? Never querulous, never resentful, never discouraged. Today, all twenty-six bishops and the Duke of Howard spoke with him, and passed the bill into law.
Lord Wroth looked up and fixed his dark eyes on Kate, too late. No vote ofnot contentcould now reverse what had just happened. He didn’t understand it, but he understood that something was wrong.
She couldn’t help herself. She smiled. She let Lord Wroth see her teeth.
Lord Pecke was gently ribbed for finally getting the peasants some toothbrushes, and then the chancellor moved on to the rather more pressing matter of the Vote of Credit for Services that had come to them from the other House. The day’s proceedings continued.
Lord Wroth had a clerk fetch him an unabridged copy of Lord Pecke’s bill and began paging through it like a student on the eve of exams. It was forty minutes later when he looked up at her again, the page he’d been reading crumpled inside his fist. He had found the relevant clause.
