Page 21 of Unmasking the Diamond
Jane squeezed her sister-in-law’s fingers. “It would appear the duke has fixed his attention upon you. You must be careful, Charlotte. He is not a man to be crossed.”
Charlotte nodded. But inside, her thoughts churned. She would never marry the Duke of Brackenford. Not if he were the last man alive upon the earth. The very idea of becoming his duchess made her stomach turn. Yet, for all her revulsion, a spark of practicality pierced through: this might be her best chance to ask Jane what she knew of the duke’s late wives. Lord Luca’s request still lingered in her mind, needling at her conscience. If those women had suffered, if they had been wronged, then perhaps Charlotte could be of use in bringing the truth to light.
She took a steadying breath. “Jane… do you think the rumors are true that he killed his four wives?”
Jane’s lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “I do.” Her voice carried no hesitation. “When we stood at the altar, he struck me. In front of the vicar, the guests—everyone. That is the kind of man he is. Cruel. Unforgiving.”
“Did he ever speak of his wives to you?”
Jane shook her head slowly. “Rarely. But when he did, it was only with scorn. There was no tenderness, no grief. Only contempt.”
Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart, pain flooding through her. “Those poor women,” she whispered. “What they must have endured.”
“Leaving him at the altar was the best decision I ever made,” Jane said.
“And I am so glad you did. You have made my brother so happy, Jane. I have never seen him smile so freely—so often. It is as if he has been unshackled from the chains of his past.”
At that, Jane’s expression softened. “I daresay we unshackled one another.”
“What do you know of the duke’s first wife—the one who was sent to the asylum?”
Jane’s smile dimmed. “He claimed she was mad. But I never believed it. She was seen at a ball the very night before she was committed. Perfectly lucid, by all accounts.”
“Did no one object?”
“Oh, many did,” Jane said. “But nothing could be done. All that was required were two doctors willing to declare her mad. With his wealth and influence, he could find those easily enough.”
Charlotte frowned. “It should not be so simple to condemn a woman to such a fate.”
“Yet it happens,” Jane replied. “More often than most realize. Men of power and rank find it a convenient way to rid themselves of troublesome wives since a divorce is nearly impossible to obtain.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, horror washing over her in cold waves. How fragile a woman’s security was. A husband’s displeasure could banish her to an asylum, silenced and forgotten. She thought fleetingly of her own father and shuddered. Perhaps she should be grateful that he, for all his faults, had not chosen such a path for her.
Jane’s voice broke through Charlotte’s spiraling thoughts, tugging her back to the present. “We shouldn’t dwell on such unpleasant things,” she said, her tone decisive. “The duke is inmy past, and that is where he shall remain—if I have any say in it.” Her lips twitched. “Now, about those biscuits.”
The tension that had been coiling tight in Charlotte’s chest eased, and she allowed herself a small laugh. “I could most certainly use a biscuit.”
“As could I… although, I propose a trip to Gunter’s for some lemon ice.”
Charlotte shot to her feet. “Lead the way.”
Luca sat alone in his cramped office atThe London Gazette, the scent of ink and paper lingering in the air. Stacks of newssheets lay scattered across his desk, columns of dull Society notices staring back at him like a personal indictment. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. Blast it! His brother had been right. The Society page was uninspired, a droning account of balls, gowns, and tedious engagements. His readers wanted sharp wit, intrigue, scandal dressed as elegance. And the only person who could provide it was Miss Winslow.
The trouble was, he had made a sport of teasing her, of delighting in ruffling the feathers of the diamond of the Season. He’d reveled in her quick retorts, and the spark in her eyes when she bristled at him. But now that he needed her pen, she wanted nothing to do with him. Fool that he was, he had turned an amusement into an obstacle.
A knock broke his reverie. Luca lifted his head. “Enter.”
His secretary, Mr. Wright, slipped into the office, his posture as stiff as the starched collar around his neck. “I searched through every record I could find on The Chelmsford Asylum,”he reported, clutching a stack of papers, “and discovered it is owned by the Ravenhurst Trading Company.”
Luca sat forward, interest sharpening. “And who owns that company?”
Glancing down at the papers, Mr. Wright replied, “It doesn’t say, but a solicitor’s name appears on the registry. A Mr. Jacob Griffin. No partner or backers are listed.”
“Botheration,” Luca muttered, drumming his fingers against the desk. His instincts prickled—this reeked of secrecy. “It might just be a company on paper.”
“That was my thought as well, but I intend to dig deeper.” Wright produced another slip of paper. “I was also able to trace the sister of the late Duchess of Brackenford. A Miss Blythe Dawlish. She has let out a townhouse in Cheapside for the Season.”
“Good. I will want to speak with her at once.”
