Page 75 of Love, the Duke
CHAPTER22
MAN’S PRACTICAL GUIDE TO APPREHENDING A THIEF
SIR BENTLY ASHTON ULLINGSWICK
Make the suspect feel he can confide in you.
Hurst walked over to the table and downed the rest of Ophelia’s brandy and poured himself another splash. The heat of the liquor swallowed so quickly sent a flush through him. He took off his coat and threw it with more force than necessary for it to land on the bed rather than the floor. But what the hell did it matter. He’d told Ophelia he wouldn’t forbid her to search for the chalice and then he had. That was not his finest hour.
He knew it was close to the time the vicar would be arriving at the church. A missing sacrament would cause a rumble of concern. Perhaps a large donation would soothe the bishop’s and new vicar’s ruffled feathers. It would not soothe Ophelia’s. But perhaps it would give them time to find the chalice.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood in front of the window staring out while the sun hung lower in the sky with every passing minute. The strong drink helped ease the tension in the back of his neck and shoulders but failed to touch the ache in his chest.
Hurst didn’t like arguing with Ophelia, or making herfeel as if he wasn’t helping. And he certainly didn’t like going back on his word.
Maybe he’d handled their conversation all wrong. No, hellfire, he had handled it wrong. Passionately was the only way he knew how to talk to her about her search to save her brother’s legacy.
What was she going to do? Exactly what she’d indicated she would do and defy him? Probably. Perhaps she had legitimate reason to. He had acquiesced to her wishes and told her she didn’t have to obey him. The surprising thing was he hadn’t minded at the time. So no, he couldn’t rightly forbid her to do anything. She was right. That had been the wrong thing for him to say in the heat of the moment or at any other time.
Of all the ladies in London, why did the most stubborn of them have to be the one destined for him to love and cherish? And he did with his whole being. He wouldn’t make any excuses or apologies for that to anyone, including himself. She was all he could ask for in a wife. Exquisite, persuasive, and beautiful beyond any other woman he’d seen or imagined.
Hurst walked over to the slipper chair and plopped himself down while continuing to brood. In truth, he had to rationalize that she was much like him after he’d met her—feeling she might be the lady for him at times but believing she couldn’t possibly be because she wasn’t like the lady he’d always expected: demure, compliant, and obedient to his will. He couldn’t count the number of charming ladies he’d met over the past ten years who were exactly like that, and with every one of them, he wanted to feel that spark of erotic sensation that told him she was to be his bride. But in his soul, he knew they weren’t. Ophelia was.
She was meant to be his. Since he knew that, it was nowonder he worried about her and that he was so passionate to make her consider another way might be better. Ophelia continued to take too many chances with her safety and reputation. She was not only a lady and a duchess, but was the love of his life. That made all the difference. Whether it was said clearly or mumbled, the wordobeywas in their marriage vows, and alsocherishandprotect.
Why wouldn’t she just let him handle this theft the normal, practical way? By people who had actually done things like this before and knew how to do it with the most efficient means. He didn’t know what he was going to do about her, because her will was as strong as his.
Raising his voice when he was angry wasn’t the answer to anything either. He didn’t mean to, and by the devil he might have been loud, but it wasn’t yelling as she’d claimed. He knew the difference. He yelled at his sporting club’s events. He’d yelled at his father. To her, he only talked loudly, but he was trying not to do that.
Maybe she only thought he was excessively loud because her brother and father had always been so damned calm and thoughtful about everything they said, even if they were furious with someone. The person would never know it by their tone or expression. It was their calling to know how to keep peace and live in harmony at all times. Hurst didn’t understand it.
In life, there was nothing wrong with showing passion in your voice when it was called for. Not that it mattered to him, but Ophelia’s voice had risen a time or two as well. Although he hadn’t called her on it. And wouldn’t. He didn’t mind her emotions showing in her voice.
Someway he had to make her see that it meant he cared deeply for her, for what they were discussing. But admittedly, it was a habit he’d developed whenever he and his dad had rows. Habits could be broken, and he wasgoing to break that one. For her. He would never be as discreet in tone as were those in her family. He didn’t know anyone who was, other than the Stowes. Hurst wanted to be the kind of husband Ophelia wanted and deserved, but there was no way he could fail to show annoyance from time to time any more than he could remain expressionless when he was happy.
What was he going to do concerning her thoughts on the baron? Ophelia had mentioned her own nature. Hurst believed her. And it wasn’t in his nature to suspect a titled man. Perhaps there were some peers who misused their duties to the title and mankind in general, but he didn’t know any who didn’t appear to do their best to be honorable at all times and in all things.
Whoever took the chalice had to have been someone who needed money or had a fetish for collecting religious objects. Hurst combed through his memories of the times he’d been with the baron. They had been at the same card tables a few times. He was an acceptable and honest player. As Hurst recalled, he was damn good at billiards. He always paid his gambling debts. Hurst couldn’t remember anything that would make the man seem odd. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, Lord Gagingcliffe once thought of being a clergyman himself. That didn’t mean anything, though. Hurst had once thought about the possibility of the ministry too.
But what if Mrs. Turner was right and it was a titled man from London who had a collection of artifacts on his bookshelf? And what if the woman who was embedded into her beliefs of the superstitious realm of life was right about Gagingcliffe? What if Ophelia had been right not to give up on what she felt deeply in her heart was the only true way to go?
Hurst couldn’t say he knew the baron well, but hewas good at reading a person. What would it hurt if he and Ophelia paid a visit to the man? It would make her happy. And hell yes, he wanted to make her happy. Hurst looked out the window and studied longer on the idea. The sun would be setting soon. That would make it past respectable visiting hours. But most people didn’t mind what time a duke showed up at their door.
On their way over to the baron’s house they could discuss the kinds of questions to ask him while there. If he seemed nervous, jittery, or tried to change the subject when talking about collecting things, religious subjects, that could possibly be a telltale sign. If necessary, Hurst would delve deeper into the baron’s private life. For Ophelia, he would have the man’s whole house torn apart piece by piece if necessary.
Hurst stood up, placed the unfinished drink back on the table, and grabbed his coat off the bed. There was nothing like assessing, or in this case reassessing, a situation to come up with a doable plan. His duty was to Ophelia, not the baron simply because he was a peer. She wanted to question the man, and they would.
He went to her adjoining door and knocked. “Ophelia.” He knocked louder and called her name. He checked the handle. The door was unlocked, so he opened it and went inside. The room was empty.
Damnation!His heart raced. His first thought was that she had she gone to Lord Gagingcliffe’s. Without him? Couldn’t she have given him fifteen minutes to work through what needed to be done before she went chasing off on her own?
“Ophelia!” Hurst raced down the stairs and into the drawing room calling her name.
“Your Grace, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Stowe asked from the settee where she was sitting as he rushed inside.
“Have you seen Ophelia?”
“Yes.” She gazed at him with a concerned stare, closed the book she held, and placed it aside. “Ophelia came back down very shortly after the two of you went up. She said she was going for a walk.”
