The Duchess War Page 17

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dusk came, but Minnie had not yet come to a decision. She was pacing in her room when she heard a pounding on the door below. There was the noise of scuffling and then a shriek from the entry beneath her feet.

  “Minnie! Minnie!” Lydia’s voice.

  Minnie rushed to her door. A storm had come on since the duchess’s visit and rain beat against the windows in sheets.

  Minnie didn’t stop to put on slippers. She simply threw her bedroom door open and darted toward the stairs. Her friend stood in the entry, dripping water in a puddle. Her hair had fallen from its half-curls to lie in a sodden black mess at her shoulders. Her skirts and petticoats were bedraggled.

  “Minnie,” she said again, before Minnie could descend the stairs to her. “Stevens is back, and you would not believe what he is saying to Papa. He’s saying—”

  Minnie held a finger to her lips. “Shh.” She tilted her head to where the maid stood, watching in confusion. Don’t say anything. They might gossip.

  “He’s saying,” Lydia said in hushed tones, coming up the staircase, “that you’re the author of those handbills.”

  Minnie’s heart pounded in her chest. “Is he? Has he any proof?”

  “He’s saying that you are a liar and a cheat—that he has proof that your mother never married, not ever, that you’re a child of sin. He’s saying your real name is Minerva Lane—”

  Minnie set her hand over Lydia’s mouth. “Shh,” she repeated softly. “I know what he’s saying. No need to repeat it. Who does he think Minerva Lane is?”

  Lydia frowned at the question. “Just—just some other woman. Stevens thought it was the name you were given to hide the truth of your illegitimacy.”

  So. Stevens had discovered her real name—she had lived in Manchester when she was a tiny child, and someone must have remembered the connection. But he hadn’t traced her family history, or figured out why she’d taken on a new name. If he’d been looking in Manchester, he might well have missed the reason. After all, the scandal had broken in London.

  “You have to come sort it all out. Stevens is talking about a warrant for your arrest.”

  “For my arrest?” Minnie gasped.

  “For criminal sedition. Papa has known you all these years. I don’t know how it could have happened, how he could think anything so impossible. I heard it all through the door. Minnie, you must come. Maybe if you send for the duke…”

  Thunder rattled the windows, so loud that Minnie flinched.

  “No,” she said swiftly. “Not him. Not him. He can’t save me.”

  Stevens might not know why Minerva Lane had changed her name, but he would soon. Once that name was uttered in public, there would be no hiding her past. If Minnie married Robert, exposure would not just be a possibility. It would be a certainty. She would never be able to escape this noose around her neck. She could feel it tightening about her now.

  Another clap of thunder came, long and low, vibrating through the air. Her hands trembled with it, and in the end, fear made the decision for her. She had a heartbeat to choose between ruin and betrayal, between the possibility of love and the certainty of defeat. And when it came down to it, love had served her poorly before.

  “We have to leave now,” Lydia insisted. “I know you can put things right. You always do.”

  Minnie knew what she had to do. She could see it already, a nightmare vision stripped of color.

  “Have a horse saddled,” Minnie said to the housemaid, who still waited in the entry below.

  There was only one path out of this mess, and it was going to break Minnie’s heart.

  “Come, come.” Lydia tugged on her sleeve.

  “Dry off a little.” Not that it would do any good, what with them venturing out again. “I need…five minutes. Five minutes to gather some papers.” Five minutes to slay two birds with one single betrayal.

  She walked into her room in a daze. Slowly, she pulled out the stash of papers she’d built up. Evidence, painstakingly collected. Including the letter he’d written her.

  Minnie looked straight ahead. Her heart thumped heavily, but she bundled it all up without trembling.

  It took nearly three-quarters of an hour for Minnie to make her way to the Charingfords’ house in the storm. By the time she arrived, Minnie’s skirts were dripping and her hair was no doubt a tangled, sodden mess. But there was no time to waste with anything so frivolous as drying. As soon as Lydia escorted her inside, she threw the parlor doors open and walked inside.

  “Miss Pursling!” Mr. Charingford exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

  Stevens slowly stood, folding his arms in disapproval. His eyes slid over Minnie, fell on Lydia behind her, and then shifted away. “Miss Charingford,” he said icily. His gaze shifted back to Minnie.

  “Tell them,” Lydia said behind her. “Tell them the truth.”

  Stevens shifted to look at Minnie. “You, I presume, are Miss Minerva Lane.”

  She had known it was coming. Her stomach lurched, even so, at hearing her old name spoken aloud, seeing the look in Stevens’s eyes. Lights flashed in front of her vision.

  It is nothing. You are nothing. It can’t touch you here.

  “Correct,” Minnie said.

  Behind her, Lydia let out a gasp. But Minnie couldn’t look back. She couldn’t bear to see her friend’s face now.

  “So, you’re a bastard. What else have you been hiding?”

  Minnie held up a hand. “I am a great many things,” she said quietly. “But there is one accusation that will not hold. I am not, nor have I ever been, a writer of seditious handbills.”

  “Lies,” Stevens growled.

  Minnie met Mr. Charingford’s eyes. “I have never been involved—and all the proof points to another man.”

  Stevens shook a finger at her. “More lies.”

  But Mr. Charingford stepped forward. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because, Minnie, as little as I would like to think of you in this way, I know what you can do.”

  He didn’t look at his daughter as he spoke, but Minnie knew he was thinking of that long-ago afternoon when she’d explained what needed to be done to safeguard Lydia’s reputation.

  She ignored him. “I shall prove it.”

  All her emotions seemed distant—a light stuffed away under a metal hood, shining brightly where nobody could see it. She was dark and calm. She was nothing inside.

  “Who do you claim is responsible?” Charingford asked. “Grantham? Peters?”

  She opened the fabric sack at her side. She’d wrapped the contents first in waxed paper, then in oilcloth; they were only a little damp when she pulled them out.

  “These,” she said, separating out the first sheaf of pages, “are the papers that our dear friend De minimis has produced thus far. The following can be observed under a jeweler’s lens. First, the type that produced these has an e with a defect: it has a hairline crack. Right here.” Facts. That was all she was: a collection of facts, and no more. She pointed, and then flipped a page. “And on this one. And this next one here. It’s quite distinctive.”

  She spread another sheaf of papers in front of her. “These are the sort of papers that can be purchased in large quantity here in Leicester.”

  Stevens started forward.

  Minnie held up a hand. “They are all made locally. You’ll note that I’ve marked their origin in the corner; even if you do not trust me, you can ascertain the truth of what I’m saying with a morning’s inquiry. Use that same jeweler’s lens on this paper, and you’ll discover something that will hardly seem surprising. All the paper that is made in Leicester takes advantage of local materials. The three mills here all incorporate waste products from the textile industry into their papers: rags, bits of cotton, wool. Paper from Leicester, when closely examined, has characteristic threads of fibers throughout, no matter what the grade. This—” she tapped Robert’s handbills “—this has none.”

  “What are you trying to say?”
<
br />   She ignored Stevens. She was an encyclopedia, a dictionary, telling truths and nothing more.

  “Here are samples of printing from the local presses. I have cataloged the defects in the type personally; once again, I assure you that a little time spent on your part would verify this assertion. You will note that there are no hairline fractures in any e that is the size shown in the handbill.”

  “Come to the point, Miss Lane.” Stevens sneered. “We already knew that whoever was producing the handbill was not acting alone. This only tells me that you had help from abroad. A national organization, perhaps?”

  She wouldn’t let him fluster her. Mr. Charingford was watching her more closely. Deliberately, she picked up another few pieces of paper. “Now, this paper was purchased in London. You’ll note that I have paper of several different grades in this pile. This one—” she plucked the piece from the bottom “—this one here, you’ll discover is a precise match in content for the paper on which the handbills are printed. Do keep the rest of the paper in mind, however. Who do you suppose the manufacturer is?”

  “I’m in no mood to play guessing games. You’ve already said it’s from London.”

  “It’s from Graydon Mills. Do you know anything about Graydon Mills?”

  “I tell you, Miss Lane, if you do not come to a conclusion—”

  “Let her finish,” Charingford growled.

  Minnie nodded. “Graydon Mills was founded sixty-seven years ago by a Mr. Hansworth Graydon, a farmer who made his first fortune in sheep, and his second, third, and fourth fortunes in manufacturing. He owned quite an empire. His wealth was so extensive that he was able to marry his daughter well. When Mr. Hansworth Graydon died, he left the bulk of his properties to his grandson. You know him as Robert Alan Graydon Blaisdell, the ninth Duke of Clermont.”

  This was met with silence, then a snort of derision.

  “You have to be mad,” Stevens sneered. “You think to escape your rightful punishment by exploiting so far-fetched a coincidence?”

  Mr. Charingford said nothing, just motioned for Minnie to continue.

  “His Grace uses paper from Graydon Mills for all his personal correspondence as well,” Minnie said. “A premium grade, to be sure.”

  “I don’t care if he does!” Stevens’s face was turning red. “I’ve heard enough innuendo. Charingford, if you will—”

  Slowly, Minnie drew out the letter he’d handed her on the train.

  “This,” she said, “is personal correspondence from His Grace.” Her voice was trembling now. Her hands were, too. She smoothed the paper against the table and gripped the edge. “I will point out that he uses the highest quality of Graydon Mills paper that there is—there’s the watermark. His signature, too, can be authenticated.” She pointed. “But I rather think you will find the contents more interesting than the source.”

  Stevens snatched the paper from her hand.

  “Don’t know what I’m doing…” he muttered, reading. And then he stopped and looked up at her.

  “I write handbills,” he read slowly. He read it again, and then a third time, his eyes moving more slowly across the paper with each successive reading. Over his shoulder, Charingford perused the words with a growing frown. He moved away, shaking his head.

  “I don’t believe this,” Stevens said. But his words were not the words of a man who doubted the letter. They were an attempt to deny reality.

  “Minnie,” Charingford said, “this letter…the tone of it is intimate. The salutation. The words he uses. Even the way the letter is signed. How is it that you came to be in possession of this letter?”

  Robert might possibly have forgiven Minnie for revealing the truth under the circumstances. The duchess had said that she’d needed to betray him, to earn his scorn.

  If she had been playing a game, this was the moment when she would have kissed her chess piece. Once she made this move, there would be no going back.

  Minnie lifted one eyebrow. “The Duchess of Clermont approached me,” she said, quite distinctly. “She wants her son to give up his ideals. She offered me five thousand pounds if I could stop him.”

  The truth. Not the full truth, and said as it was, it conveyed an impression that was entirely false. Her hands were shaking.

  “Tell him that I said that,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Show him, and he won’t deny his involvement.”

  There was no longer any turning back. If she’d read the relationship correctly, telling the duke she had been in league with his mother would end any esteem he had for her.

  But then, the moment Stevens had connected her with the name Minerva Lane, all chance at a happy marriage with the duke had ended.

  “He’s a duke,” Stevens said dully. “How could a duke do this?”

  “Ask him.” She dropped her head. “I wouldn’t know what a duke does or why he does it.”

  “And how am I to bring him to account, even if he did?” Stevens was still staring at the paper. “He’s riled the town near to boiling with his handbills and his assertions. Next you know, you’ll have workers marching, refusing to come to work. How am I to keep peace if the citizens of the town think the law can be broken with impunity?”

  Minnie reached for the letter—but Stevens yanked it away from her. He shuffled angrily through the papers, looking at them.

  “Someone,” he said. “Someone must pay.”

  She had paid once, and she would pay again. But for now… Now, she’d earned her money. She’d have enough to leave, enough to escape Minerva Lane for good. So why did she feel like weeping?

  “Get out,” Stevens said. “Just—get out. I’ll deal with you later.”

  Minnie slowly left the room.

  Lydia had waited, pressed against the wall the entire time. But as Minnie went by, she followed her out into the front room.

  “Lydia.” Minnie’s voice was shaking.

  “What was that?” Lydia asked. “It couldn’t have been the truth. The Duchess of Clermont paying you? Minnie, she only arrived in town a few days ago, and this thing with the duke has been going on much longer than that. Telling them your name is really Minerva Lane? If you were really named Minerva Lane, you would have told me. I know you would have.”

  Minnie flinched. “Lydia.”

  “You would have told me,” Lydia repeated. “You are like a sister to me. You can’t be anyone else.”

  “My name really is Minerva Lane.” She dropped her eyes. Somehow, this story should have been easier on the second retelling, but it was even harder with her friend’s eyes on her.

  “No.” Lydia shook her head more fiercely. “It can’t be. You would have told me.”

  “In a way, Minerva Lane never existed,” Minnie said. “When I was very young, my father dressed me as a boy and brought me around Europe, showing me off. He called me Maximilian. The truth came out.” She swallowed. “I was ruined. You can only imagine how I was ruined. I changed my name to escape his legacy.”

  “But…” Lydia was shaking her head. “But how could that be true? If it were true, you would have told me.” She was becoming more vehement with every repetition of the phrase.

  “No,” Minnie said. “I wouldn’t have.”

  Lydia drew up her chin. “You knew everything—absolutely everything about me. How could you not tell me?”

  Lydia’s ragged breath, her clenched fists, felt worse even than that moment when the crowd had surrounded her, when they’d gathered around her…

  “Lydia. I couldn’t. If I told you—”

  “I wouldn’t have said anything. Not ever.”

  Minnie’s scar felt tight. Her whole head burned. Her stomach churned. “I can barely bring myself to speak of it. When I do, my whole body starts to shake. I stop being able to breathe. I couldn’t have you looking at me while I said it. I couldn’t.”

  “God forbid,” Lydia said, “that you should have showed me a weakness. Why, I might have thought you a mere mortal.”

  Minni
e closed her eyes. “I still love you. Lydia?”

  “How can you?” Lydia said coldly. “The person who was my friend—she wasn’t even real. She was a construct.”

  “No. It was…it was real.” But her voice was quiet now, so hard to marshal, and Lydia wasn’t even looking at her.

  “Get out,” Lydia said. “I can’t even look at you right now. Get out.”

  Minnie stumbled to the door. It was still raining hard, and the rumble of thunder sounded like the stomp of feet, the roar of a crowd. Lightning flashed, searing across her vision.

  “Here,” Lydia said, shoving an umbrella into her hand. “Take this. No, you ninny, I don’t care what happens to you. I just want you out of my sight. Go!”

  Minnie wasn’t sure how she staggered down the steps to the pavement. She could scarcely even see through her tears. When she opened her eyes, she saw three men across the way. They looked at her curiously. Perhaps it was not every day they saw a woman stumble out of a house. Just three, but it was enough.

  It’s nothing. It’s nothing. You’re nothing.

  But she wasn’t nothing, and she couldn’t pretend that the events of today had happened to anyone but her. She bent over double and was noisily, violently ill on the pavement.

  When her stomach settled, she stood. She was still shaking, but it felt as if that wave of nausea had carried everything away. Not just the physical shakes, but her fear, her timidity, twelve years of lies. Everything that had made her Wilhelmina Pursling, the shy, retiring wallflower who stuck to the corners, had been washed away.

  She glanced at the Charingfords’ house over her shoulder. Wilhelmina Pursling was gone, and with her had gone a decade of friendship.

  Bravo, Minnie. Bravo.

  Sighing, she opened the umbrella and started toward the mews where she’d left her horse.