The Handmaiden's Necklace

Tory shivered, shoving away the unwanted thought. “We know Rafe has a good heart. We can only hope the necklace will work.”

Claire looked up from studying the leaves in the bottom of her teacup. “Maybe the duke will fall in love with Mary Rose. That would be the perfect solution.”

Tory cast Grace a look and tried not to grin when Grace rolled her eyes. “That is a very good notion, Claire. Perhaps he will.”

But when she thought of the searing glance Rafe had tossed at Danielle Duval, she couldn’t make herself believe it.

“Please, Aunt Flora. I simply cannot do it. How can you even think of asking me to go through that again?”

They were standing in Danielle’s bedchamber, in their elegant suite at the Chesterfield Hotel, a lovely room done in shades of gold and dark green. Aunt Flora had let the rooms for the next two weeks, until their ship set sail for America.

“Come, now, dearest. This is an entirely different sort of affair. To begin with, this is an afternoon tea, not a ball, and a number of the children will be there. You know how you love children, and you are always so good with them.”

Dani toyed with the sash on her blue quilted wrapper. It was not yet noon. The benefit tea would begin in a little over an hour. “The affair may be different, but I will be shunned, just as I was before. You saw how people treated me.”

“Yes, I did, and I was proud of the way you conducted yourself. You made it clear you had every right to be there. I thought you handled the situation beautifully.”

“I was miserable, every single moment.”

Aunt Flora sighed dramatically. “Yes, well, I am truly sorry about the duke.” She looked up at Dani from beneath a set of finely plucked, silver-gray eyebrows. “At least the man didn’t cause you any trouble.”

Dani didn’t mention the angry look he had tossed her, or the furious expression he couldn’t quite hide. “He would have been sorry if he had said even one word.”

“Well, he won’t be there this time, I promise you.”

She glanced down at her aunt, who was a good eight inches shorter and quite a few stone heavier. “How can you be so certain?”

“It was merely a fluke the last time. An afternoon tea is hardly the sort of affair that would interest a duke. Besides, I wouldn’t ask you to go if I were feeling up to snuff. Lately I’ve been a bit under the weather.” She coughed lightly for effect, hoping to make Dani feel guilty.

Instead, Danielle saw it as a last thin ray of hope. “Perhaps, since you are ill, it would be best if you stayed home, as well. We can have some nice hot tea and fresh scones sent up and—”

Aunt Flora stopped her words. “As co-chairwoman of the society, I have duties, responsibilities. As long as you are with me, I shall be fine.”

Dani’s shoulders sagged. How did her aunt always manage to get her way? Then again, Aunt Flora had agreed to accompany her on the difficult journey to America. She would be there for Dani’s wedding and remain until she was settled with her husband in her new home. Surely she could buck up enough to make it through this last fund-raising event before they departed.

And, as Aunt Flora had said, the children would be there. There would be at least a few friendly faces to get her through the afternoon affair.

A knock at the door drew her attention. An instant later, the door swung open and her lady’s maid, Caroline Loon, walked in.

Caro smiled widely. “Lady Wycombe sent for me. Shall I help you pick out something to wear?”

Dani rolled her eyes, thinking that she hadn’t had a chance from the start.

“Well, then I shall leave you to dress,” Aunt Flora said, making her way out the door. “You may join me as soon as you are ready.”

Giving in to her fate, Dani made a resigned nod of her head, and as soon as the door was closed, Caro hurried over to the armoire against the wall. At six-and-twenty, a year older than Dani, Caroline Loon was taller and more slenderly built, a blond woman, attractive in a different sort of way, with an incredibly sweet disposition.

Caro was a gently reared young lady whose parents had died unexpectedly of a fever. Penniless and orphaned, she had arrived at Wycombe Park nearly five years ago, desperate for any sort of employment.

Aunt Flora had immediately hired her as Danielle’s lady’s maid, but over the years, the two of them had become far more than mistress and maid. Caroline Loon, a vicar’s daughter likely destined for spinsterhood, had become her best friend.

Caro opened the door of the armoire. Though most of Dani’s clothes were packed away in heavy leather trunks in preparation for her journey, a modest assortment of gowns hung inside.

“What about the saffron muslin embroidered with roses?” Caro asked, dragging out one of Dani’s favorite gowns.

“I suppose the saffron gown will do well enough.” If she had to go to the blasted tea, she intended to look as good as she possibly could, and wearing the bright yellow muslin always made her feel pretty.

“Sit down and I’ll do up your hair,” Caro instructed. “Lady Wycombe will have my head if you make her late for her tea.”

Danielle sighed. “I swear, between the two of you, I am surprised I ever get to make a decision.”

Caro just laughed. “She loves you. She is determined you return to society. She wants you to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy—once I’m on my way to America.” Dani reached over and took hold of Caro’s slim, long-boned hand. “I am only grateful that you have agreed to go with us.”

“I am glad to be going along.” Caro managed a smile. “Perhaps we will both find a new life in the Colonies.”

Dani smiled, as well. “Yes, perhaps we will.” Danielle certainly hoped so. She was tired of her nonexistent life, tired of being hidden away in the country with few friends and only an occasional visit from the children in the orphanage to look forward to. She was eager for the chance to make a new life in America, where no one had ever heard of The Scandal.

In the meantime, she had to find the courage to get through her aunt’s miserable tea.

Rafael slipped a forest-green tailcoat on over his beige piqué waistcoat. His valet, a short, slight, balding man who had been in his service for years, reached up to straighten the knot on his stock.

“There you are, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Petersen.”

“Will there be anything more, sir?”

“Not until my return, which should be sometime late this afternoon.” He didn’t intend to stay at the affair very long, just drop by and pay his respects, and of course leave a sizable bank draft for the orphans. After all, it was his civic duty.

He told himself it had nothing to do with the notion Danielle Duval might also be in attendance, convinced himself that if she were, he would ignore her as he had done before.

He wouldn’t say any of the things he had longed to say five years ago, wouldn’t let her know how badly her betrayal had hurt him. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how devastated he had been, that for weeks after it had happened he had barely been able to function. Instead, he would make clear his disdain for her without a single word.

His coach-and-four waited in front of the house, a lavish three-story structure in Hanover Square that his father had built for his mother, who now lived in a separate, smaller, but no-less-elegant apartment on the east side of the mansion.

A footman pulled open the carriage door. Rafe mounted the steps and settled himself against the red velvet squabs, and the coach rumbled off down the cobbled street. The afternoon tea was being held in the gardens of the Mayfair residence of the Marquess of Denby, whose wife was deeply involved in the charity for London’s widows and orphans.

The mansion, in Breton Street, wasn’t that far away. The carriage rolled up in front and a footman opened the door. Rafe departed the coach and made his way up the front porch steps past two liveried footmen, who ushered him through the entry out to the garden at the rear of the house.

Most of the guests had already arrived, just as he had hoped, and they clustered here and there on the terrace, or walked the gravel paths through the leafy foliage of the garden. A group of children, plainly dressed but clean, their hair neatly combed, played at the base of a stone fountain on the right side of the garden.

The charity organized by Lady Denby was a good one. There weren’t enough orphanages in the city to care for the needy and many homeless children who wound up in infant poorhouses, workhouses, apprenticed as chimney sweeps, or grew up as vagrants and beggars, living hand-to-mouth on the streets.

Most orphans were taken care of by local parishes, often abominable excuses for homes. Foundlings brought into their care rarely lived to reach their first year. Rafe had heard of a parish in Westminster that had received five hundred bastards in a single year—and raised only one of them past five years of age.

But the London Society funded several large orphan homes of a very high caliber.

“Your Grace!” Lady Denby hurried toward him, a big-bosomed woman with glossy black hair cut short and curling around her face. “How good of you to come.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long. I just stopped by to present you with a bank draft for the orphanage.” He dragged the folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over, all the while scanning the guests to see who might also be there.

“Why, this is quite wonderful, Your Grace—especially since you made such a generous donation at the ball.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He could certainly afford it and he had always liked children. Having a family of his own was the main reason he had recently decided to take a wife. That and the fact his mother and aunt hounded him incessantly about living up to his responsibilities as duke.

He needed an heir, they said. And a spare. He needed a son to carry on the Sheffield title and manage the vast fortune entailed to it so that his family would always be taken care of.

“Tea is being served on the terrace.” Lady Denby took his arm and began to guide him in that direction. “Of course, we have something a bit stronger for the men.”

Smiling, she moved him off toward a table covered with silver trays laden with cakes and cookies of every sort, and tiny finger sandwiches so small it would take a dozen to fill him up. A silver tea service sat in the middle of the linen-draped table, along with a crystal punch bowl.

“Shall I have one of the servants bring you a brandy, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.” It might help him make it through the next half hour, which was all he intended to stay.

The brandy arrived and he sipped it slowly, searching for a friendly face, seeing his mother and Aunt Cornelia in conversation with a group of other women, glancing past them to the round, powdered face of Flora Duval Chamberlain. His gaze lit on the woman to her left, a woman with flame-red hair and the face of a goddess. Rafe’s stomach contracted as if he had suffered a powerful blow.

His expression instantly hardened. He told himself he hadn’t come because of her, but seeing her now, he recognized the lie for what it was. For an instant, Danielle’s eyes met his and widened in shock. Rafe felt a shot of satisfaction as the color drained from her lovely, treacherous face.

He didn’t glance away, certain that she would.

Instead her chin shot up and she gave him a look meant to burn right through him. He clenched his jaw. Long seconds passed and neither of them looked away. Then Danielle rose slowly from her chair, flicked him a last seething glance and walked off toward the rear of the garden.

Fury engulfed him. Where was the humility he had expected? Where was the embarrassment he had been certain he would see in her face?

Instead, she walked the gravel path with her head held high, ignoring him as if he weren’t there, making her way over to where a group of the children played at the back of the garden.

Inwardly shaking, Dani fixed her gaze on the children playing tag near the gazebo, determined not to let her unnerving encounter with Rafael Saunders show in any way. She had taught herself that after The Scandal, how to take rigid control of her emotions. Never let them know the power they held, how badly they could hurt you.

“Miss Dani!” Maida Ann, a little blond girl with pigtails, rushed toward her. “Tag! You’re it!”

Danielle laughed and felt a breath of relief. She had played the game with the children whenever they came for a visit to Wycombe Park. They expected her to play with them now. At the moment, she was glad for the distraction.

“All right. It looks as if you have tagged me. Now…let me see…which of you is going to be next? Robbie? Or maybe you, Peter?” She knew some of the children’s names, not all. None of them had living parents, or if they did, the parents refused to claim them. Dani’s heart went out to them. She was happy that her aunt was a patroness of the charity, which gave her a chance to spend time with the children.

Giggling, Maida Ann darted past her, just out of reach. Dani adored the feisty little five-year-old with the big blue eyes. She loved children, had hoped one day to have a family of her own.

A family with Rafe.

The thought made her angry all over again.

And sad.

It wasn’t going to happen. Not with Rafe or any other man. Not after the accident, the terrible fall she had suffered five years ago. Dani shook her head, pushing the bitter memory away.

She fixed her gaze on a boy named Terrance, a red-haired child about eight years old. Terry ran past her, just out of reach, each child rushing forward then darting away, secretly hoping she would direct her attention to him, even if she tagged him and he or she would be it.

She played the game for a while, dancing away, bolting forward and finally tagging young Terry. Waving at the children, she gave them a last warm smile and made her way deeper into the garden.

She didn’t hear the footfalls approaching behind her until it was too late. She knew who it was before she turned. Still, she couldn’t help the gasp of surprise as she stared up into Rafe’s handsome face.

“Good afternoon, Danielle.”

Her heartbeat thundered. Anger made rosy circles appear in her cheeks. She turned away, rudely ignored him, caught the look of shock that appeared on his face, and simply started walking.

But the Duke of Sheffield wasn’t used to being ignored, and she felt the pressure of his fingers as they wrapped around her arm. His grip was firm enough to stop her forward motion and turn her around to face him.

“I said good afternoon. I expect at least a civil reply.”

She clamped down on her temper, told herself not to let him bait her. “Excuse me. I believe my aunt is calling.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. “I think your aunt is otherwise engaged at the moment. Which means you have time to greet an old friend.”

Her fine thread of control stretched to the breaking point and then completely snapped. “You are no friend of mine, Rafe Saunders. You are, in fact, the last man on earth I would think to call a friend.”

Rafe’s jaw hardened. “Is that so? If not a friend, then how, may I ask, should I think of you?”

She lifted her chin, the knot of anger in her stomach almost painful. “You may think of me as the biggest fool you have ever met. A woman foolish enough to trust a man like you. Stupid enough to fall in love with you, Rafael.”

She started walking, but Rafe’s tall figure stepped into the path of her escape. His jaw was set, his intense blue eyes diamond hard.

“I believe it was you, my dear, I found with one of my closest friends. You who invited Oliver Randall into your bed, under my very nose.”

“And it was you who was eager to believe your friend’s lies instead of the truth!”

“You betrayed me, Danielle. Or perhaps you have forgot.”

Dani looked up at him, her eyes snapping with fire. “No, Rafael. It was you who betrayed me. If you had loved me, trusted me, you would have known I was telling you the truth.” She gave him a thin, bitter smile. “On second thought, as I think of it, certainly it is you who are the fool.”

Rafe’s whole body vibrated with anger.

Good, she thought. She hated the bland, uninteresting man he had become, so cool and unaffected. The sort of man she wouldn’t have found the least bit attractive.

“You have the nerve to stand there and claim you are innocent of the affair?”

“I told you that the moment you stepped into my bedchamber. The events of that night have not changed.”

“You were in bed with the man!”

“I didn’t even know he was there—as I told you that night! Now, get out of my way, Rafael.”

Fury burned in his cold blue eyes but she didn’t care. She started walking again and this time Rafe made no move to stop her.

She was surprised he had approached her in the first place. They hadn’t spoken since the night he had walked into her bedchamber five years ago and found Oliver Randall lying naked in her bed.

She had tried then to tell him that Oliver was playing some kind of cruel, terrible joke, that nothing had happened between them, that she had been sleeping until Rafe had walked into the room and startled her awake.

But for reasons she still didn’t understand, Oliver had set out to destroy the love Rafael had felt for her—or at least said he felt—and the man had brutally succeeded.

Rafe hadn’t listened to her that night, nor responded to any of the dozen letters she sent him, begging him to hear her side of the story, pleading with him to believe she was telling him the truth.

As word of the scandal began to leak out, he never once defended her, never once paid the slightest attention to her version of events. Instead, he had abruptly ended their betrothal, confirming what the gossipmongers said.

Telling the world that Danielle Duval was not the innocent she pretended, but a scarlet woman who had conducted herself shamelessly, and with blatant disregard for her intended. She’d been shunned in society, banished to the country. Even her own mother had believed the tale.

Dani’s vision blurred as she made her way through the garden. She rarely thought of Rafael and those awful days back then. But now she was here in London and Rafe was tossing the entire affair back in her face.

She sniffed and fought back the tears she refused to let fall. She wouldn’t cry for Rafe, not again. She had wept more than enough for the man she had loved five years ago and she would never weep for him again.

Three

Rafe stood in the garden, angry and oddly disturbed as he watched Danielle’s elegant figure moving along the gravel path until she disappeared inside the house.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to seek her out. Perhaps it was keeping his silence for all of these years. Whatever it was, instead of the satisfaction he was certain he would feel once he had confronted her, he was more troubled than ever.

As she had done that night, Danielle had professed her innocence. He hadn’t believed her then and he didn’t believe her now. He’d read the note, after all, and he had two eyes in his head. Oliver had accepted Danielle’s invitation and he was there in her room, lying naked beside her in bed.

Rafe had called the bastard out, of course. Ollie was supposed to be his friend.

“I won’t meet you, Rafe,” Oliver had said. “I won’t fight you no matter what you do to me. We’ve been friends since we were boys, and there is no denying the fault is mine entirely.”

“Why, Ollie? How could you do it?”

“I love her, Rafael. I’ve always loved her. You know that better than anyone. When she asked me to come to her room, I found it impossible to refuse her invitation.”

Rafael had known for years that his friend was in love with Danielle, had been in love with her since he was a youth in his teens. But Dani had never loved Ollie.

Or so Rafe had thought. He had stupidly believed that Danielle loved him and not Oliver Randall, though Ollie had for years pursued her. After that night, he had come to believe she had accepted Rafe’s offer of marriage simply to become a duchess. It was wealth and power she wanted, not him.

As he walked out of the garden, he reminded himself of all those things, told himself that just as before, nothing Danielle said was the truth.

But he was older now, not insane with jealousy, not blinded by love as he had been in those days, not furious and aching with pain.

And because he was a different man than he had been back then, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. He couldn’t forget the way Danielle had looked at him there in the garden.

Without a shred of remorse, without the slightest hint of embarrassment. She had looked at him with all of the hatred that Rafe had felt for her.

No, Rafael. It was you who betrayed me. If you had loved me…you would have known I was telling you the truth.

The words nagged at him, gnawed at his insides all the way back to Sheffield House. Was it possible? Was there the slightest chance?

First thing the following morning, he sent a note to Jonas McPhee, the Bow Street runner he and his friends had used over the years whenever they needed information. McPhee was discreet and extremely good at his job, and he promptly arrived at Sheffield House at two o’clock that afternoon.

“Good day, Jonas. Thank you for coming.”

“I am happy to assist you, Your Grace, in any way I can.” The runner was short and balding, and wore small, wire-rimmed spectacles. He was an unimpressive man whose muscular shoulders and knotted hands were the only indication of the sort of work he did.

Rafe stepped back from the doorway, allowing McPhee into his study, then turned and led the man over to his desk and indicated that he should take a seat in one of the dark green leather chairs in front.

“I’d like to hire you, Jonas.” Rafe sat down behind his massive rosewood desk. The room was two stories high, with book-lined walls and an elegant molded ceiling. A long mahogany table sat in the middle of the room, lit by green glass lamps that hung down from above, and surrounded by a dozen carved, high-backed chairs. “I’d like you to investigate an incident that happened five years ago.”

“Five years is quite a while, Your Grace.”

“Yes, it is, and I realize it won’t be easy.” He settled back in his chair. “The incident involved a woman named Danielle Duval and a man named Oliver Randall. Miss Duval is the daughter of the late Viscount Drummond, who passed away some years back. Lady Drummond died just last year. Oliver Randall is the third son of the Marquess of Caverly.”

“I’ll need to make some notes, Your Grace.”

Rafe held up a sheet of foolscap. “I have all the information written down for you right here.”

“Excellent.”

Rafe set the paper down on his desk. “At one time, Miss Duval and I were betrothed. That ended five years ago.”

Rafe went on to tell the ugly story of what had happened the evening he found the note Danielle had sent to Oliver. He explained how at midnight he had gone into Danielle’s room and found the two of them together. As the tale unfolded, Rafe did his best to relay the information without revealing any of the emotions he had felt back then.

“Is there any chance you kept the note?” Jonas asked.

Rafe had anticipated the question. “Oddly enough, I did, though I can’t begin to tell you why.” Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he moved the pistol he kept there aside and pulled out a small metal box, then fished out a key he kept on a ring in another drawer to open it. The note inside was yellowed and faded, the creases where it had been folded wearing thin. Still, it had the power to make a knot form in his stomach.

He handed the note to McPhee. “As I said, I have no idea why I kept it. Perhaps as a reminder never to be so ridiculously trusting again.”